


The Policy of Truth

by Prevailing



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, D/s, Discipline, Edgeplay, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Impact Play, Kink, M/M, Mindfuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-07 11:17:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 70,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prevailing/pseuds/Prevailing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kissing Garak in the Founders' simulation opened a new frontier of desires in Julian Bashir—some of them frightening, but all of them impossible to ignore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “Never again is what you swore, the time before.”  
> — _“Policy of Truth,”_ Depeche Mode

Julian didn’t see the blast.

He heard Garak shout and turned only to see his friend slide down the wall, tunic smoking. “Garak!” Julian called. He was at his side at once, kneeling to assess the damage. The moment his hands went to Garak’s shoulders, Julian knew he wasn’t going to make it.

Garak seemed to know it too. “Doctor,” he began, “I’m afraid I won’t—”

“ _Shh_.” Julian stroked Garak’s cheek, ignoring the indignant look that passed over his face at having his last words cut off. There was no time left, and Julian wasn’t going to waste precious seconds arguing. This wasn’t the Replimat, and they weren’t discussing Virgil. “Shh,” Julian whispered again, giving Garak a fond smile. Leaning in, he did what felt natural: he pressed their lips together.

Garak’s fingers clutched Julian’s arm with sudden strength, then dropped away.

 _I’m sorry,_ Julian thought fiercely. _I should’ve said something sooner._

Sisko tugged him up. “We’ve got to go,” he said. “C’mon.”

  
*** * ***

The fact that it was a simulation didn’t make a difference to Julian. It had felt real at the time. Terribly real. The sights, the sounds, the smells—hell, even the food—felt like more than just a dream manufactured by the Founders. Garak had seemed his usual flamboyant self. Whoever had created that Dominion simulation had nailed down Garak’s personality and motivations. Or had that simply been Julian’s mind filling in the blanks? Lying on his bunk aboard the  _Defiant_ , he turned it over in his mind for the entire journey back to Deep Space Nine.

When they reached the station, his fretting only worsened. At the debriefing, Julian was aware of Sisko’s eyes lingering on him for far too long, and he knew Dax, in her infinite Trill wisdom, had figured it all out. Neither said a word to him about the simulated Garak’s death, or his reaction to it. For all Julian knew, they suspected he’d been having an affair with the tailor all along.

If that were the case, maybe he’d be better equipped to handle his turbulent emotions. Was it really that obvious? Did everyone see it except him? 

More importantly: what would Garak think?

The revelation that the Changelings were the Dominion’s notorious Founders was enough of a distraction to occupy the senior staff for a good week, he calculated. Between bites of breakfast and while rushing through errands, Julian ran a gamut of his own simulations, struggling to predict the Cardassian’s reaction should he confess. Each one was more random than the last. Result: inconclusive.

It didn’t help that all Julian had to go on was Garak’s past behavior, which was hardly indicative of anything. The man was a notorious liar. If Julian were being reasonable, he’d let this go. Drop it. Part of him knew he shouldn’t allow this situation progress. Getting involved with Garak would be a disaster, if not for his career, then at least for their friendship. He needed to push aside his feelings like an adult, and carry on having lunch with the man every week, never saying a word, until one of them dropped dead or transferred off the station.

And yet, the evening after they’d returned from the Gamma Quadrant, Julian found himself standing in front of Garak’s shop. It was closed, the interior dark, but a sliver of light glimmered from a corner, escaping from underneath a doorway. The object of Julian’s thoughts was in there somewhere.

Probably busy working on his commissions, Julian decided. Better to not disturb him. It would be rude, and Cardassians hated rudeness. Julian’s feet happily carried him away to his quarters, where he could avoid embarrassing himself for at least another night.

Once inside his quarters, Julian nestled on the sofa with a stack of PADDs documenting a new pathogenic fungus that had been tearing through Bajor for the past several months. Normally it only caused disease in immunocompromised Klingons, but this fungus had managed to infect completely healthy Bajorans. It should’ve been the perfect distraction, sufficiently complex, intended to pique his natural drive for problem-solving. But another issue festered in his mind, demanding attention.

For two hours, Julian prodded both problems simultaneously: eyes and fingers focused on the mutation of the spores while the back of his mind questioned his behavior and emotions. But the latter problem was quickly gaining a foothold, nagging at him, demanding more of his energy. Stress from the last mission weakened his resolve.

_Focus!_

In response, Julian’s brain only thumbed its nose at him.

Julian rubbed his temples and swept the stack of PADDs aside. “Computer, music.”

There was a chirp, followed by a burst of Klingon opera.

“That’s what I get for not being specific,” he muttered. “Computer, stop music.”

The room fell back into silence.

Julian jumped to his feet and paced. Up to the bedroom, over to the dining area, back to the front door. _Get out of my head_ , he thought, clenching his fists. Oh, if Garak could see him now, agonizing over this like a lovesick teenager.

“My dear doctor,” Julian muttered, “what has you so distressed? Oh, nothing, Mister Garak, besides being absolutely infatuated with you. Sisko and Dax are already convinced we’ve been shagging each other for years, so why don’t we pop over to a pylon and have our way with each other? No? Well, see you tomorrow for lunch!”

Julian collapsed onto the couch, palms pressed into his eyes. There was no denying it. He’d felt the roiling emotions the second he saw Garak die. The strength of those feelings still rattled him, but the only way to figure out how to proceed next was to admit it.

Julian wondered how long he’d felt this way—when his interest in Garak had made the leap from mere curiosity to that of genuine affection. From fondness to attraction. He couldn’t pinpoint one turning point. It had been slowly building. The thought was ridiculous—there was so little he _knew_ about Garak. Much of what he _did_ know was terrifying, and that which wasn’t terrifying was contradictory. No doubt that was part of the appeal. Garak was the epitome of the unexplored frontier.

If Julian were being honest, he did have considerable trepidation about the differences in mating rituals and sexual physiology between humans and Cardassians. His knowledge was scant, his cross-species forays far from enterprising. And the more Julian talked himself into it, the more he worried about the fallout. Granted, if Commander Sisko suspected anything, he hadn’t spoken a word about it. Julian knew better than to take that as tacit approval; the commander simply didn’t want to broach the subject, and Julian couldn’t blame him. But it hardly mattered if Sisko didn’t approve—if he tried to dictate who Julian could and couldn’t date, he’d fight the commander on the issue. But in the intervening time, Sisko could make their lives difficult. He could expel Garak from the station, with ease. Julian couldn’t risk that. 

Then there was the judgment of his fellow officers. He’d receive little support on that front.

Julian stood up and replicated a raktajino. He wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.

*** * ***

The passing days didn’t lead Julian to any resolution. If anything, his state progressively worsened. He found himself daydreaming about Garak during meetings, rehearsing fantasy scenarios and rehashing conversations long past. By day four, the disease had spread beyond his control.

Of course, Julian had been avoiding Garak the moment the crew returned from the Gamma Quadrant. It was a cowardly move, but his only option as he sought to buy himself time. It also left him with little way to relieve his newfound obsession, besides the cold showers (increasing in frequency) and the furtive wanking sessions each evening following his shift. Messages from Garak piled up. Likely the tailor wondered why Julian had missed their last lunch. Julian left them unlistened; he knew he’d unravel the second that _voice_ reached his ears.

The first close call came when Garak took it upon himself to swing by the infirmary. Alerted by a nurse, Julian was able to duck out of his office and slip away in time to catch her muffled, “Well, he _was_ here just a second ago.”

 _He must think I’m such a prat,_ Julian lamented.

All hope was lost when he began stalking Garak. His friend proved to be a difficult quarry indeed— when Garak wasn’t in his shop, he was mysteriously nowhere to be found, and rarely did he linger elsewhere on the Promenade. To Julian’s diseased mind, that only made him _more_ enchanting.  
  
Another morning, nearly two weeks after the fateful simulation, Julian stood on the Promenade’s upper level, taking bites of a jumja stick as Jake and Nog chattered beside him. Below them, the Promenade bustled as passengers disembarked from a newly arrived transport.

“There’s my uncle,” Nog said, pointing, and Julian easily picked out Quark’s gigantic lobed head in the crowd.

“Talking to Mister Garak,” Jake added.

Julian leaned forward. Indeed, there was Garak, back turned to them. It was amazing how he blended into the crowd (even while wearing that gold and green tunic that almost sparkled under the light, and even while being the only Cardassian on the station). He moved ever so slightly to allow people to pass. Julian studied Garak’s suit, wondered what the fabric would feel like under his fingers. He smiled, admiring his quarry from afar.  
  
Quark pantomimed vigorously. Garak nodded along.  
  
“Uncle Quark ruined his favorite jacket,” Nog was explaining. “Got Romulan ale all over it.”  
  
“Let me guess,” Jake said. “Morn was in another fight.”  
  
Julian was so engrossed in his surreptitious staring, he almost didn’t notice Quark look up in their direction. Quark’s mouth moved, and a second later Garak began to turn around.  
  
“Bloody hell,” Julian whispered, heart caught in his throat. With genetically engineered speed, he darted behind a bulkhead just in time to avoid detection. Once safely hidden, he took a deep, relieved breath.  
  
“What was _that_ about?” he heard Jake say.  
  
“Beats me.”  
  
Julian winced. He needed to get a grip; Starfleet officers didn’t run from their problems like frightened children, even if their problems happened to allegedly be former agents of the Obsidian Order. What he needed right now was advice. Outside perspective. He tossed the jumja stick into the nearest reclamation port and slapped his comm badge. “Bashir to Dax.”

“Dax here.”

“Lieutenant, care to join me for lunch at the Replimat in, say, two hours?”  
  
When Julian arrived, tray heavy with rice and coconut soup, Dax had already found them a table in a far corner. She waved him over. “Aren’t you afraid he’ll come in at any moment?” she asked with a conspiratorial smirk as he sat down.  
  
“I wish you’d at least _pretend_ to not know what this is all about,” Julian groused. He picked up his spoon and paddled at the contents of his bowl. “I think we’ll be safe. For the past five days, he’s been in his shop around this time.”  
  
Dax’s brows shot up. “You’re _spying_ on him?”  
  
Julian could only manage a sheepish smile.

“You know, Quark told me once that the last person who tried to spy on Garak was found in a meatlocker on Dessica II. Chopped to bits.”  
  
“Does that mean you don’t think I should—” Julian cleared his throat, “tell him?”

“Now, I didn’t say that. Honesty _is_ the best policy.”  
  
Julian wondered what Garak would think of _that_ particular aphorism. Nothing charitable, that’s for sure.  
  
Dax began digging into her own lunch, fork and knife slicing through the flaky crust of an Andorian meat pie. “What _do_ you want to tell him, Julian?”  
  
“I don’t—it came so suddenly, like a kind of madness. I can’t stop _thinking_ about him. I haven’t felt this way since . . .” Julian closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, defeated.

“You have feelings for him,” Dax said.

“I think that was awfully clear from the way I behaved, back in the simulation. You saw what I did.”

Dax chewed slowly. “If you’re worried he won’t reciprocate your feelings, I’d say you have nothing to worry about. But he’s not really the type to appreciate the direct approach, is he?”  
  
It stunned him how much that possibility scared him. Julian might’ve been Garak’s only friend on the station, but it wasn’t a one-way friendship. Julian valued him in so many ways he was only now beginning to appreciate. And, despite his better judgment, he _trusted_ Garak. He wasn’t sure if he could cope with the loss of that bond.  
  
“It’s too bad we don’t have much information on Cardassian courtship rituals,” Dax continued, then paused, fork hovering midair. “Well, speak of the devil. So much for those spying skills of yours.” 

Julian turned, following Dax’s gaze. His stomach flipped and did a nosedive as he caught sight of Garak next in line at the replicator. Maybe he didn’t see them.

“You have one of two options,” Dax said, and the mischievous glint in her eye sent a chill down his spine. “Either you go over there and say hello, or I’ll call him over here.”

“You _can’t_ be serious.”

“Think of this as me giving you a push in the right direction.”

“It’s a _kick,_ is what it is.”

“Come on, Julian. What happened to the daring young man who followed me around night and day, begging for a date?”

“I think you killed him,” Julian muttered, a little miffed that she’d bring up that unpleasantness now. It didn’t exactly help his self-confidence. But she was raising her arm, ready to make good on her threat. He stood, tugged down the front of his uniform, and gave her one last baleful glance. 

She favored him with a smug grin. “Good luck.” 

At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to crawl under the nearest table and hide. Distantly, he was aware of the other diners, all of them absorbed in their own meals and conversations. He kept his focus straight ahead on Garak, who had just retrieved a blue mug from the replicator. Blood rushed in his ears, but Julian could feel his confidence return with every stride of his legs, closing the distance. _This is ridiculous. It’s only Garak. So what if he rejects me? I’ll pick myself up, dust myself off—_

“Hello, Garak,” Julian began.

Garak turned and smiled. “Why, Doctor, what a pleasant surprise!”

Julian didn’t doubt the tailor saw him coming, but he played along. “I wanted to apologize for missing our last lunch.” He grimaced. “And the one before that.”

“Oh, it’s no matter,” Garak said, waving it away as if the slight bothered him not a whit. Not that Julian expected him to show a hint of affront. “I’m sure you were busy.”

“Regardless—” Julian swallowed as the cloying stench of Garak’s rokassa juice, like sweetened, rotting meat, assaulted his senses. Bizarrely, even _that_ didn’t put him off. “I want to make it up to you. Would you, ah, like to have dinner? With me. Tonight?”  
  
There, it was out, and more or less coherently.

Garak gave him a sharp, piercing look that seemed to appraise him from head to toe before fading into his usual expression of bland politeness. “My dear doctor, I’m afraid I already have plans.”  
  
“Oh.” There was no masking Julian’s disappointment.

“You see, I’m having dinner in my quarters tonight. Around nineteen hundred hours.” Garak turned and left, but not before Julian caught the slither of a smile on his lips.  
  
Julian didn’t register its meaning until the tailor was long gone. “Did he—did he just invite me to his quarters?”

*** * ***

Julian paced in front of his closet, towel wrapped around his waist, rubbing his palms together as his attention flicked to each individual garment. He didn’t have any hope of impressing someone who made his living on fashion, but the least Julian could do was not show up to dinner in a gaudy jumpsuit. Garak would never forgive him.

Eventually, he settled on a patterned blue sweater and gray slacks. The sweater was far too baggy, so he replicated another (possibly a cardinal sin). This one fit tightly against his chest and biceps. He slid into a navy blazer and inspected himself in the bedroom’s full-length mirror.

He grinned at his reflection. “You look quite fetching, if I do say so myself.” 

With two minutes to spare, Julian arrived at Garak’s quarters, box of toffees in hand. As he waited for a response to the chime, he began to rethink his choice of gifts. Was candy too forward, or not forward enough? Should he have grabbed a bottle of wine instead? Perhaps chocolate? An isolinear chip of _King Lear_ would’ve been in better keeping with past form, but lacked the nuance he sought. Maybe he still had time to find Keiko and ask for a potted succulent. Garak had once expressed an interest in plants. If that weren’t yet another lie.

The door hissed open, interrupting his thoughts. Garak looked magnificent in a suit of maroon and black, embroidery curling across silk fabric like tendrils of smoke. “Welcome, doctor,” he said, smiling with his usual fondness. “Please come in.”

Momentarily struck speechless, Julian stepped forward, offering the toffees. He cleared his throat, finding his voice. “Hello, Garak.”

“Oh, how thoughtful. Thank you.” Garak set the box on a high shelf, where Julian guessed they wouldn’t tempt him.

“Watching your figure, Garak?”

“If only we could _all_ be blessed with your figure, my dear.” 

Julian allowed a private smile. “I suppose I owe it to good genetics.”

Garak beckoned him forward. “Come here. I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing this outfit before, have I?”

Julian approached, hands clasped in front of him. He tilted his head to the ceiling as he awaited Garak’s appraisal. He felt like a boy who was just learning to dress, under the inspection of his mother.

Garak circled around, frowning as if trying to divine meaning from an abstract painting. His attention settled on Julian’s shoes. “Those boots.”

“They came back in fashion.”

“Yes, decades ago. I recall the merchants on Cardassia Prime used to wear these.” He shot Julian a pointed look. “I was just learning how to talk.”

“A time that would forever live in infamy.”

“I’m sure.” Garak reached out and fiddled with the lapels of Julian’s jacket, smoothing them with the tips of his fingers.

Julian felt heat rise in his cheeks. He tried to not breathe in the other man’s scent as Garak continued to fuss over him. “Really, Garak, you’ve seen me dressed worse than this.”

“Far too frequently, it pains me to say.” Before Julian could retort, Garak straightened, smiled. “What would you like to drink? I have kanar and springwine. Of course, if that doesn’t satisfy, my replicator is at your disposal. Perhaps your usual Tarkalean tea?”

“Springwine sounds good.”

As Garak bustled away to play the gracious host, Julian seized the moment to take in his surroundings. The quarters were mostly their bare default, unadorned, as if barely lived in. A few tasteful pieces of art here and there, but nothing that made it feel like a home. 

“You know, I’ve been in here before,” Julian began, letting the fact that it had been while watching Garak sleep off withdrawal go unmentioned, “but I never got the chance to comment. These aren’t the quarters I’d expect of Elim Garak.”

Garak had popped a cork and commenced pouring a bottle of amber liquid into a glass. He didn’t look up. “Meaning?” 

Julian wasn’t sure _what_ exactly he meant, either. He noted Garak’s neutral tone and decided to tread lightly. A good policy whenever anything turned personal between them. “Maybe nothing like a dungeon from medieval Earth, per se, but maybe something with more—” He hunted for the word. “Flair?”

“How little you know me. Flair? I’m really rather dull.”

“And you expect me to believe that?” 

“To tell the truth—”

“Now  _that_  I doubt.”

Garak cast him a sidelong look that balanced between playful and reproachful. “To tell the truth, you’re the only guest I’ve entertained in these quarters. But that isn’t too surprising, seeing as how I don’t even sleep here.”

Julian frowned. 

“Of course, you already knew that, didn’t you?” Garak was pouring the kanar now, his voice still frustratingly neutral. 

Julian hadn’t known that. He shook his head, still frowning. Naturally, Garak had known Julian was spying on him—that wasn’t what puzzled him. “I don’t understand. I saw you come in here every day at eighteen hundred hours, right after you closed your shop for the night.”

“Ah, but that’s not the real question, is it?” 

Garak didn’t continue with this train of thought, and instead stared at Julian, as if waiting for him to finish for him. “The question,” Julian said, catching on, “is whether you stayed here.”

Garak beamed. “Very good.” He closed the distance between them and passed Julian the springwine. Then he raised his own glass of bright blue kanar. “A toast. To learners—both fast and slow.”

“Cheers.” Julian clinked their glasses together. Garak’s eyes widened briefly in surprise. “What gave it away?” Julian said. “That I was following you, I mean.”

“Oh, doctor, I couldn’t attribute it to any one thing. May I make a suggestion? You should consider leaving the espionage to the _real_  spies.” Garak glanced around hastily and whispered, “Wherever they may be.”

Julian laughed. Fair enough. It wasn’t like he was gunning for a position in Starfleet Intelligence. Best to stick to the day job. That didn’t explain why Garak had let him continue his farce of a covert operation for so long. Garak must’ve wondered why Julian was keeping such close tabs on him. But if Garak wanted to know, he’d have to ask.

Garak had moved to the back of the dining area, where he seemed to be preparing dinner from scratch. _Of course_ Garak could cook. He was talking about Keats as he worked, quoting this or that poem. Right. Julian had given him an isolinear rod featuring Romantic poets. Julian nodded along to whatever Garak was saying, watching Garak’s hands deftly maneuver around the small countertop, applying finishing touches, stirring this and spicing that. He seemed so serene, so tranquil.

“You’re really domestic,” Julian blurted and cringed. God, he sounded like an utter twit.

“As I said: dull.” That same neutral tone again, never giving away what Garak was thinking. He seemed even more guarded than usual. Julian would have to work on that.

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Here.” Garak ladled a pink sauce over an arrangement of fish and handed him the platter. “Take this to the table, if you please.”

 _Yes, idiot,_ Julian thought savagely.  _Take this and shut up before you say anything else asinine._ Making himself useful, he grabbed more dishes and utensils, sliding them onto the table while his mind scavenged for possible witty remarks. In all directions, he drew blanks.

Garak wiped his hands on a towel. “Doctor, have you not heard a word I’ve said?”

Julian pressed his lips together. “Sorry.” 

“I thought so. I hope this won’t become a new habit of yours. We Cardassians may relish the sound of our own voices, but I have little patience for repeating myself.” Before Julian could offer another apology, Garak continued, “You may recall that I promised to treat you to some of my favorite Cardassian dishes, as replicators don’t do our cuisine justice.”

Julian remembered no such promise, but he listened dutifully as Garak pointed to each platter and described its contents. The only item he recognized was the regova eggs. 

“The flavors are more diverse than what an untrained human palate can tolerate. I won’t be offended if you have to replicate your usual toasted bread and chicken broth.”

The challenge was obvious. Julian plopped down in the seat across from Garak and grabbed a fork. “I’m not surprised you’re already blaming your bad cooking on my inferior palate.” 

Garak tilted his head. “I slave for hours over a hot stove, and I’m repaid in insults.”

“Sit  _down_ , Garak,” Julian said through a mouthful of fish. It wasn’t half bad. Spicy, tangy. “You’re making me nervous.”

Garak pulled out the other chair and, sitting primly, began eating. He glanced up intermittently as if to ensure that Julian wasn’t spitting wads of food into his napkin. Julian shoveled forkfuls at his accustomed speed, appraising the way the low cut of Garak’s tunic exposed the gray, smooth scales of hisneckridges. Julian took a deep breath to steady his nerves.

The silence was companionable. It dragged on far too long.

That smooth-as-silk voice broke the silence. “Why were you following me, doctor?”’

Julian hadn’t expected a direct question, especially so soon. Luckily, he was ready for it. More or less. “Our last mission to the Gamma Quadrant—did you hear about what we discovered? Well, you were there. Sort of.”

“If you returned to that horrible alternate reality, I think I’d rather not know.”

“You don’t like hearing about your evil twin?” Julian teased.

“ _Evil_  is a loaded term, and much too subjective for my tastes.” Garak took a bite of food, chewed, swallowed. “From what I’ve heard, my counterpart sounds more like a buffoon.”

“Could it be, then, that I’m having a pleasant dinner with the _real_ evil Garak?”

Garak favored him with one of those enigmatic smiles. “What an  _interesting_  supposition, doctor.”

“I’ll have to run some tests on that. But no, it wasn’t the alternate reality. The Founders had us in this simulation of sorts, to test out how we’d react under certain conditions. We weren’t aware of it, you see.” 

“Ingenious.”

Julian shook his head.Garak _would_ approve of a tactic that gathered information through devious means. “You helped us escape the station.” Julian hesitated. “And then you died.”

When Julian didn’t elaborate, Garak prompted, “That’s it?”

 _With a few key pieces omitted_. The moment of truth was upon him. Time to bare his feelings and face rejection. “It . . . I wasn’t prepared for that. People think I’m naïve, and maybe I am—I became a doctor so I could save people, and, Garak, you _died_. You were dead and we just left your body there. But that wasn’t it. I felt . . . there was so much more to _do_ and—what the bloody hell am I trying to say?”

“It’s your story, doctor. I can’t presume to finish for you.”

 _But you can. I want you to. Meet me halfway, you bastard._  “It hurt in a way that was different from losing a friend.”

“This hardly explains why you were following me.”

“Are you being purposefully thick, Garak?”

That got his attention. “I must warn you, your meandering story is falling on dangerous territory.”

“Dangerous how? Because it scares you?”

Garak lowered his fork and placed both hands on the table, as if making to rise. But he stayed in place, staring at Julian. Julian stared back, not about to be intimidated. “This foolhardy sentimentality of humans—”

“Of  _humans_ _?_ When you Cardassians aren’t falling over yourselves in declaring your love for the Union, you’re pining over lost lovers and—”

“You’re confusing vice for sentiment.”

“I might be naïve,” Julian snapped, “but I know the difference.”

Before Julian could register the movement, Garak was up and standing behind him, leaning forward so his breath tickled Julian’s left ear, both hands flat on the table, pinning Julian in. Julian shivered. They’d been in a similar position before. He’d been startled and flustered back then. Now he had to fight waves of arousal as Garak pressed against him.

“I suppose I should be flattered,” Garak hissed, “that Julian Bashir, the brilliant and charming Chief Medical Officer of Deep Space Nine, has taken an interest in me.” Garak’s lips brushed his ear, and Julian froze. “I admit you’re a stimulating conversationalist, and very alluring.” The lips moved down, grazing the skin of Julian’s neck, and the doctor gasped. “Lovely, even. But—” The mouth returned to Julian’s ear. “I’m  _not_ impressed.”

Julian swallowed. “Bollocks.”

“I’m unfamiliar with that term.”

“Rubbish,” Julian amended, picking non-slang words Garak would recognize. He cleared his throat. “Nonsense. You’ve wanted me since the beginning.”

“Have I? You should know better than to presume to read my thoughts.” He took a long, lingering breath. “But you misunderstand me, my dear. I’d love nothing more than to have you right now. Bent over this very table.” 

Julian shivered from the force of the words, his cock going hard.

“But you have no idea what it’s like to have me in your bed.”

Julian arched back until his head rested on Garak’s shoulder. “Then show me.”

Garak bit down on the tender flesh of his neck. Julian cried out. “I will hurt you,” Garak said, tongue flicking a soothing trail over the now-throbbing skin. “But not only that. I expect a certain amount of  _obedience_ , and I fear you’re much too willful.”

“I’m eager to please.”

Garak nibbled his earlobe. “Not good enough.”

It was too much. It wasn’t enough. Julian turned in the chair, neck craned, and kissed Garak hard on the lips. The scales were rough and so much warmer than Julian imagined. Before he could lean further into the kiss, Garak pulled away with a growl and grabbed Julian by the jacket, hauling him to his feet and shoving him against the table. There was a crash as a plate clattered to the floor. Julian fought the urge to smile. 

“As I said,” Garak whispered, voice full of menace as he glared at Julian from beneath his eyeridges, “you’re much too willful.”

“Then you’ll have to finda way to teach me obedience. You can handle a challenge, can’t you?”

“Oh, you flatter yourself. You’re no challenge. You’re nothing but a boy. Soft.” To punctuate his words, Garak pinched Julian in the side, causing him to jolt. “It would take no effort to break you.”

Julian felt a shock of fear at the word  _break_. This was an ex-agent of the Obsidian Order he was dealing with, not just a simple tailor with an apparent kinky side. The line was blurry, but it was there, and although that uncertainty sent a thrill through Julian, it also scared him. Could he trust Garak not to cross that line, get lost in the game? Did Garak even care if he did?

Garak was watching him closely. He must’ve sensed Julian’s hesitation, because his hands dropped away. “I thought so.” 

The moment Garak backed off, Julian had his answer. This wasn’t an interrogation; Garak was operating under the bounds of consent. Julian could stop this any time he wanted. He escaped Garak’s grasp and rounded the table, putting it between them. His body protested the lack of contact. “I hate to disappoint you, Garak, but I’m a trained Starfleet officer, not some scared and helpless prisoner. You might be used to breaking the weak and innocent, but I can put up a fight.”

For a moment, he feared he’d taken it too far. Then Garak’s eyes lit up and he smiled. Predatorily. Slowly, he began to stalk around the table, toward Julian. “I suggest you run for the door, doctor, or you might have to put that to the test. I’d hate to bruise that pretty skin of yours.”

Julian easily continued around the table, keeping it between them. “You’re full of shit. I bet you’re so out of practice, you couldn’t hurt a fly.”

Garak stopped and started to laugh.

“I bet,” Julian continued, warming up to the insult, “the only thing you know how to wield anymore is a sewing needle.”  _I can’t believe I’m encouraging this side of him._ He’d seen Garak at his worst, and it had been terrifying. “You’re rusty, old, declawed.” Julian leaned over table and scooped a thick, red sauce onto his finger. He brought it to his lips, licking the sauce off in long strokes of his tongue.

The scales of Garak’s face andneckridgesdarkened, going from gray to charcoal. Fascinating. He wondered how far down that color change went.

Julian sucked the last bit of sauce from his finger and smiled as Garak made an almost imperceptible groan. “Delicious. You’ve been so well domesticated.”

Garak’s eyes flashed with anger. Before Julian could run, Garak grabbed him and threw him against the wall. Hard. Julian gasped for air, finding his lungs unresponsive. “You should’ve fled when I offered the opportunity,” Garak said, pinning him against the wall with an arm against Julian’s throat. “Now I have no choice but to _punish_ you.”

Julian wheezed, trying to get his lungs working.

“Knock twice on the wall if you want me to stop.” 

Shaking his head, Julian pressed his erection against Garak and mouthed the word _please._

Garak’s free hand traced Julian’s hard cock through the thin cloth, his touch feather-light, eliciting a strangled moan. “Is this what you want?”

Juliannoddedand sucked in a shaky breath. At last, he could breathe again.

Garak’s hand fell away. “Too bad. I haven’t appropriately disciplined you yet.”

“I don’t think you’ll get the chance,” Julian whispered. Garak looked ready to retort, but Julian pressed a jagged shard of the fallen ceramic plate to his throat, cutting him off. “Let me go.” 

Garak raised aneyeridge. “Oh, how cunning! Bravo, doctor. I’m genuinely impressed.”

“I thought you’d like that. Now let me go.”

“I don’t think so.” Garak pressed his arm against Julian’s throat. “It seems we’re at an impasse. Except you won’t draw blood. You don’t have it in you.” 

Julian stared into Garak’s eyes, finding them black, fully dilated. He could only imagine how his own must’ve looked. He had to fight to keep the makeshift knife level, to resist the urge to thrust against Garak’s leg. “Are you sure?”

Garak shifted his weight. It happened in an instant—Julian pressed the shard into the scales of his neck, drawing a trickle of dark red blood just as there was a sharp _click_. Cold metal snapped around Julian’s left wrist. Then he was wrenched, the shard flying from his hand. His face collided with the wall. His arms were yanked back. Another snap.

Julian blinked as he realized what had just happened. “Where the hell did you get _handcuffs?”_

“I think you’ve talked enough for tonight. Get on your knees.”

Julian tested the cuffs with a few jerks of the wrists. They held. He turned around so he could glare at Garak, and spat at him.

Garak sidestepped it with the ease of one who’d dodged more than one spitwad in his life. Damn that unflappable bastard. “Very well,” he said, taking hold of Julian’s shoulder and kicking his legs out from under him.

Julian’s knees hit the carpeted floor and he hissed as pain shot through him. Garak had held him steady to keep him from falling flat on his face, and Julian silently thanked him for that. He didn’t want to creep into the infirmary at this hour with a broken nose.

Garak circled around, dabbing at his neck with a napkin. “Are you ready to apologize?”

“No.”

“Unfortunate.”

Garak disappeared behind him, out of Julian’s line of sight. He tried to keep his eyes trained forward—for what reason, he wasn’t sure—but as the quarters fell silent and the seconds ticked on, his curiosity became too much to bear. He turned just enough to peer at Garak from the corner of his eye.

There was a glint as Garak turned over a blade in his hands, studying its edge. He caught Julian gaping. “Eyes forward. I suggest you stay perfectly still, doctor. I use this knife to cut the flower spikes of my orchids. It appears I’ve neglected to clean the blade and, alas, this particular species leaks a sap known to sting the flesh rather painfully. If I accidentally nicked your skin, I’d never forgive myself.”

That could’ve been a lie. Despite being on his knees with his hands behind his back, Julian was feeling bold. “Maybe you should wash it, then.”

“Does Starfleet not teach its officers how to show proper respect to one’s tormentors?”

“I must’ve skipped that etiquette lesson.”

Garak grabbed him by the hair, drawing him up. Julian grimaced, but managed to not make a sound. The threat was implicit: shut up and hold still, or else. Julian took the order to heart. His limbs were trembling with anticipation as Garak released him and drew close, knife in hand.  _I can’t believe I’m allowing this,_  he thought. _I don’t even know what he plans to do with—_

Garak’s breath was on his nape, and a second later, there was a sickening tear as the knife sliced down the curve of his back, cutting through jacket and sweater. 

“ _Garak!_ _”_

“Yes?”

“I need those!”

“I disagree. Your appearance is already much improved.” Garak brought the knife to Julian’s right shoulder. When Julian stilled again, he sliced through the sleeve. Then he shredded the other. The torn fabric fell away and Julian shivered.

Garak knelt in front of him and whispered, “Lean back.”

This time, Julian obeyed, arching back as far as he could comfortably manage. Looking down, he saw the knife hover against his throat. Oh-so-slowly, Garak brought the blade down, slicing the front of his sweater. Julian swore he could feel the blade coming within millimeters of his skin. Then Garak was back on his feet, slicing fabric here and there, much too haphazardly for Julian’s tastes.

He glanced around, finding himself completely naked above the waist. He felt a breeze against his skin as Garak circled around, appraising him. The knife disappeared with the flick of a wrist. A cool, scaled finger traced Julian’s jawline, and he raised his chin. It took all his frayed self-control not to lean into Garak’s touch as those strong fingers caressed his neck, his shoulders, his cheeks. 

Garak moved to the dining table. “Now, for your chastisement.”

“Couldn’t you just give me a scolding?” Julian batted his long eyelashes, a technique that never failed to win over even the most frigid soul.

“You’ll find that doesn’t work on me.”

Too bad. “Well, I hope you discipline me soon. I’m getting cold.”

“ _Cleave gag_ ,” he heard Garak mutter under his breath. And then Garak had the platter of red sauce in hand. He lowered it to the floor, between Julian’s knees. “Since you seemed to like this dish so much, you can lick it clean.” 

Julian stared down at the plate, wide-eyed.  _He can’t mean—he wouldn’t expect me to—_  

A quick, disbelieving glance at Garak revealed him standing to the side, arms crossed over his chest. Waiting. Remote, like he was dispassionately taking bets on what Julian would do next. Julian guessed at his thoughts:  _10 to 1 odds says he throws the plate at me and storms out, the timid human._

Julian returned his attention to the platter. It sat there, an inanimate challenge to everything he believed up to that point.  _I’d never,_ he insisted to himself, feeling a coil of fear and something else. Humiliation. Garak expected him to eat off the floor like an animal, some pet. He couldn’t let himself be reduced to that.

Could he?

 _This is my punishment. Didn’t I say I was eager to please? No surprise that he’s putting that to the test. Seeing how far I’d go._ Julian had meant every word of it. He wanted to please Garak, wanted to prove that he was more than just a foolhardy human. He wanted to show Garak that he was worthy. Whatever that might entail.

Widening his stance, Julian leaned forward and pressed his face to the plate. At first he lapped at the sauce quickly, intending to get it over with, but then he slowed, savoring it as he felt Garak’s eyes on him. Brazen, he swirled his tongue around, licked at the rim, letting out small moans of satisfaction as he found every drop of tangy sauce. _Imagine what I could do to your cock,_  he silently mocked with a thrill. 

When the plate was clean, he sat up and allowed himself a smile of triumph. Julian Bashir, conqueror of sauces. He could feel it all over his face, but to hell with that. Maybe he should ask for seconds.

Garak kicked the plate aside, and Julian gasped in disappointment. What had he done wrong?

Then Garak grasped him by the back of the neck and kissed him so forcefully it took his breath away. Julian responded eagerly, sucking Garak’s tongue as it slipped inside his mouth, groaning as Garak nibbled his lower lip and licked traces of sauce from his cheeks and the tip of his nose. It was sloppy and wet and so absolutely amazing. “Good boy,” Garak whispered into his mouth. “Such a good boy.”

Julian grinned and grinned, kissing along the ridge of Garak’s chin.

“Can your mouth handle more excitement, dear?” 

Eyes leaping to Garak’s trousers, Julian nodded. There was no visible bulge or tenting, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. “May I use my hands?” 

“Only if you promise to behave.”

“Please? I want to touch you. I promise. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

Garak knelt behind him and there was a click as the cuffs came loose. Sighing in relief, Julian rubbed at his wrists and looked up as Garak returned to stand before him. There was no hiding the trembling of Julian’s hands as he crawled forward and, kneeling between Garak’s legs, began to unfasten the buttons and closures of his trousers. The moment he tugged down his trousers and underwear, Garak’s cock began to evert from its sheath. Julian marveled as it emerged, hard ridges springing to attention, slate gray scales shining with lubricant. It was lovely. Garak gave it a few strong pumps, coaxing his cock to its full size.

For a moment, Julian took hold of the shaft in both hands and calculated. Garak’s cock smelled of a faint musk, sweet and alien. Gingerly, he licked at the head, finding the scales soft under his tongue. Then he lapped at the ridges underneath, smiling as Garak’s cock jerked ever so slightly.  _Here goes,_ Julianthought,and took it into his mouth.

Closing his eyes, Julian formed a tight seal with his lips and sucked hard, swirling his tongue. Garak’s hands went to his head, stroking his hair but not pushing him forward. Julian was thankful for that; already his jaw ached from his ministrations. But he didn’t stop. Garak didn’t make a sound, but his thighs trembled as Julian stroked the base of his cock and sucked with relish.

He stayed like that, on his knees, sucking and laving Garak’s cock for what felt like an eternity. And he didn’t mind one bit.

“I’m close,” Garak said at last.

Julian hesitated. What was he supposed to do? There was no time. Garak groaned, and then he was coming into Julian’s mouth. It was hot, syrupy-thick, and Julian struggled to swallow it all in time. As he pulled away, he wiped his chin to find some had dribbled over his face.

And Garak was kissing him again, pulling Julian to his feet. They did a strange, awkward dance, Julian clinging to Garak, trying to get into contact with more of that sturdy body, and Garak trying to drag him somewhere. High off endorphins and epinephrine, Julian stumbled forward, his own erection almost forgotten.

Almost.

He giggled, momentarily disbelieving. “I just sucked you off.”

“Indeed, and now it’s my duty to return the favor. Have more of your drink.”

“Thank you.” Julian swished the springwine around in his mouth, took several more gulps. “God, my knees are absolutely knackered. Why are you putting your trousers back on?” It was so unfair that Garak still looked dapper and composed, while he was half-naked, horny, and disheveled—covered in sauce and semen.

“Doctor, go to the bedroom and strip down,” Garak ordered.

“Or what?”

“I’ll have to kick you out.”

“You wouldn’t,” Julian said, drawing back to look at Garak’s face, now sporting an innocent smile that was anything but. “You  _are_  the evil twin.”

Garak tilted his head and grabbed Julian’s bum in two hands, squeezed. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Julian hurried in the direction of the bedroom, kicking off his shoes and yanking down his pants on the way there. The bedroom appeared similarly plain, the lights down to half brightness. It wasn’t until he’d tossed aside his knickers and flopped backward onto the bed that he saw the hooks and straps hanging from the ceiling.

“What are you, Garak?” he said. “A professional dominatrix?”

Garak was leaning in the doorway. “I believe that’s the term for a woman, but I’m hardly knowledgeable in that area. That’s merely a relic from the room’s previous resident. I haven’t had the time to have it removed.” He paused. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you like this, doctor.”

“Well, now that you have me, what do you plan to do?” Julian asked, rolling onto his stomach. He hoped to hell this was alluring. To his delight, Garak smiled, all teeth. Suddenly Julian recalled that Brother’s Grimm story  _Little Red Riding Hood—_ the wolf, dressed in the grandmother’s gown, lying in wait:  _all the better to eat you with._  

Climbing upon the bed, Garak covered him with his body, kissing and biting trails along Julian’s ears, neck, shoulders, down to his back, following the curve of his spine. His fingers lazily stroked Julian’s sides. Julian squirmed underneath the pleasurable volley of attention, grinding his hips into the bed.

Garak slapped his bum, spanking both cheeks in quick succession. “No.”

Julian stilled, pouting. He couldn’t help it. “But—”

“Patience, doctor.” 

“That’s easy for you to say!”

Another spank, this one harder. Julian yelped, then gasped as Garak continued his trail of kisses along his back, descending. The abused skin must be beet red now. Julian held his breath as he felt a clever tongue investigate the cleft of his ass. It licked, wet and warm, then probed deeper as two hands spread him open and—

“Oh! God, that’s—” Dirty. Unsanitary. Disgusting. “ _Fabulous_.”

Garak made no reply, apparently contented with thrusting his tongue in and out. Julian pulled at his own hair, bit his fingers to keep from crying out.  _If he doesn’t give me more, and soon, I’m going to go mad._

As if sensing his need, Garak withdrew and began to rummage in the nightstand. Julian whimpered, suddenly feeling empty. It was a strange, foreign sensation, and hardly the first of the night. And not the last, he hoped.

“On your back.”

Julian obeyed, staring up at the ceiling and that black strappy contraption. His cock was a heavy weight against his stomach, begging for attention. Garak took hold of it, giving his erection an experimental squeeze. Julian groaned, legs splayed, thrusting into Garak’s hand. When no admonition followed, he took that as a good sign and sat up enough to look into Garak’s eyes. “M-more. Please?”

“Please what?”

“Oh, shi—Garak, you massive wanker. P-please,  _please_. Please suck me.”

“You beg so nicely, my dear.”

Kneeling between Julian’s thighs, Garak took his cock into his mouth and began to suck. It was the singularly most incredible sight of his life, he decided at that moment, howling gibberish as Garak’s tongue worked the shaft, fingers gently cupping his balls.  _God, he’s good at that,_  Julian thought deliriously.  _I wonder if he’d kill me if I tried to fuck his mouth._ He didn’t dare find out.

Then he felt a slick finger tap at his opening and slip inside. A second finger, teasing and stretching, followed the first. Inching deeper, Garak’s fingers curled, homing in on his sweet spot.

Julian threw back his head and clawed at the bedcovers. Garak’s mouth, his warm palm on his balls, his fingers inside him—the pressure was sweet and overwhelming. He came forcefully, trembling from head to toe, the waves hitting him one after another. It seemed to last forever, leaving him stunned. He was only distantly aware of Garak swallowing.

Julian sucked in deep breaths, his racing pulse steadying. “Wow,” he said. The word hung in the air. _Wow._

Garak pulled away. He sat at the edge of the bed, smoothing out his hair and tugging at his sleeves. Julian tried not to take his sudden distance personally. This was Garak, after all. Eternally private and secretive. The man probably showered with his trousers on.

“I’ve never done anything like that before,” Julian whispered. Suddenly shy, he hid his face in his elbow.

“How does a curious young man as yourself neglect such basics?”

It was a question for which Julian had no answer. “I know, I’m terrible. Take pity on me?”

“My dear doctor, I’m here, as always, to help with your education. How do you feel?”

Julian rolled onto his stomach and propped his chin in his hands. “Utterly besotted.”

Garak favored him with a fond smile that was all too brief. “Did I cross any boundaries?”

“You did startle me with the knife bit, and when you knocked the wind out of me, but I knew you’d never hurt me.”

“And the hair-pulling?”

“I . . . I rather liked that. Uhm. Mind if I use your shower?”

Garak lifted his hand in the direction of the lavatory.

Julian padded out, chest fluttering at the way Garak’s eyes followed him. He took his time in the shower, letting the hot water douse his hypersensitive skin. Already he was shivering at the memory of Garak’s fingers inside him. Intellectually, he knew that kind of stimulation could produce intense orgasms, but he’d never thought to try it himself. He’d have to make up for lost time.

When Julian emerged, wrapped in a white towel and shaking out his hair, he found Garak standing in the dining area, eating from one of the plates like a man starved. When he spotted Julian, he set the food aside. “There might be some logic to your rapid eating habits, doctor.”

Chuckling, Julian came up behind and wrapped his arms around Garak’s chest, pressing his cheek against soft black hair. “I’ve been telling you. Hey, do you want to cuddle?”

“What?”

“You know, snuggle. It means to embrace, affectionately. It’s—”

Garak shook his head. “I know what it means. I just don’t make a habit of lounging around in bed.”

“Once or twice won’t make it a habit,” Julian drawled in a low voice he hoped was seductive.

Garak shifted his weight between feet but didn’t pull away. “I replicated you a new shirt,” he said, gesturing to a folded garment slung over a chair. “It should suffice for your trip back to your quarters.” 

Julian balked. Was Garak kicking him out? Just a wham, bam, thank you, ma’am, now sod off? Blindsided, Julian bowed his head and, gathering his scattered clothes, began dressing. It only made sense that someone so remote and secretive wouldn’t want him spending the night. He hadn’t been expecting an invitation. But to just toss him out on his ear, so coldly, was another matter.

Garak was back at his side. A hand went to Julian’s elbow. “Have I offended you?”

“No, nothing like—well,  _offended_  wouldn’t be the word I’d use.”

Garak nodded. Julian noted that he didn’t ask what word he _would_  use. “Odo keeps a rather close eye on my quarters, as you might imagine. Rest assured, I’ve deactivated his devices, but it’s only polite I return them to working order. Considering the hour, it would be in your best interest not to stay overlong.”

“Worried about my virtue, Garak?”

“Among many other things. I have a gift for you.”

Julian raised a brow, the slight nearly forgotten. “Oh? What is it?”

“You mentioned you were inexperienced,” Garak said, picking up a PADD, “so I included the specifications of an item you may find helpful. Along with your homework.” When Julian grabbed for the PADD, he held it back with a smug gleam in his eyes. “If you’re interested in doing this again, that is.”

“Are  _you_?”

“Ah, I asked first.”

Julian threw his arms around Garak’s neck and kissed him. He released a sigh as Garak held him close, the tension in that sturdy body easing. “I thought you were already bored of me,” he confessed.

“Now who’s the one being thick?”

“Me, I freely admit it. When will we see each other again?”

“During our usual lunch, of course.”

In two days, then. That wasn’t really what Julian had been asking, but there was no need to press the issue just yet. He _did_  know where Garak worked, after all. It was much harder for him to avoid Julian than vice versa. “Brilliant,” he said, snatching the PADD from Garak’s hand. “I look forward to it.”

“As do I. I take it I don’t have to remind you to maintain a certain amount of discretion?”

“I think you just did. But no worries.” Julian tapped the side of his nose. “I’ll keep things hush-hush. Good night, Garak.”

“Good night, doctor.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word _a’latli_ comes from prairiecrow's [When the Farsei Blooms](http://archiveofourown.org/works/242288).

Julian whistled his way back to his quarters. Somehow, he managed to hold off until he was inside before examining the PADD. Delaying gratification had never been one of his strong suits, so it was with some excitement and misplaced pride that he switched the device on and inspected the contents.

The first item was, as promised, the specs of an object whose name was, naturally, omitted. He sent the instructions directly to the replicator and turned to flip through the rest of the PADD. It also held two books, one of which was titled “Learning the Kardasi Alphabet.” He accessedit,and was bewildered to find it was _exactly_ as advertised. Each page featured a colorful alien animal and a symbol for what appeared to be at least thirty letters. A voiceoveraidedin pronunciation. Clearly intended for Cardassian children.

 _Maybe he made a mistake,_ he thought, but that was about as ludicrous as Quark giving away all his possessions to become a Vedek. It wasn’t something that happened. No, as with everything related to Garak, there was a hidden meaning here.

The replicator beeped, and Julian’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the object waiting for him inside. It was bright blue, made of a spongy material similar to silicone, its tapered length ribbed in an outrageous corkscrew swirl. Gingerly, he removed the butt plug and turned it around. Okay, so the use of _this_ item was obvious, at least. Garak was apparently capable of being blunt. Sometimes.

 _Homework,_ he’d called it.

Back to the books. The second was similarly styled as the first, with flowers in the place of animals, and titled “Learning the Kardasi Numbers.”

One of these things was not like the others.

Julian didn’t spend too much time fretting about it, however. He crawled into bed and slept soundly that night, blue sex toy propped at attention on the pillow beside him.

* * *

Jadzia had invited Julian to breakfast in her quarters. It was late morning when he finally showed up, looking suspiciously tired and yawning into a fist. For a good ten minutes, they sat in silence, buttering toast and sipping juice.

She was a patient woman, but there was only so much she could take. Sighing, Jadzia speared a fried tomato and pointed it at him. “Well? Give me details!”

Julian hid his face behind a mug of tea. “What makes you think there’s anything to tell?”

“You’ve had that goofy smile on your face since you got here. Do you really expect me to believe that nothing happened?”

“I shouldn’t kiss and tell.”

“And ruin your perfect track record?”

Julian made a sour face, but he didn’t argue with her. “Point taken.”

“You can trust me, Julian.” Jadzia lowered her fork to fix him with a winning smile.  “I’ve been keeping secrets for decades. I won’t breathe a word. And remember—you came to _me_ for advice. Do you really want to ignore over three hundred years of life experience?”

As Julian considered it, his face grew wistful. Oh, this was going to be good. “I’ve never had an encounter like it before, Jadzia. With anyone. One second we were having dinner—did you know he could cook? It was all very nice and proper. And then the next thing I know, he’s got me against the wall, handcuffed.”

Jadzia nearly choked on a mouthful of bacon. Julian jumped up, those physician instincts kicking in, but she waved him on. _Never mind me. Continue!_

“I—” Julian covered his eyes. Once she’d recovered, Jadzia smiled at the sight of his discomfort. It was kind of adorable. “He was so damned aggressive. I guess I should’ve expected as much from a Cardassian. They’re not known to be passive when it comes to, well, _anything_. He said he wanted my obedience, and—” He cleared his throat. “There was this plate of sauce. He wanted me to lick it clean from the floor. Like an animal.”

“And did you?”

The way Julian glanced away was all the answer she needed.

“Oh, and he ripped my shirt off. Quite literally.”

“Anything else?”

Now he was blushing something fierce. 

Jadzia got the idea. She grinned. “It sounds like you had a very _eventful_ evening. How’d it make you feel?”

That wistful look had returned. “Brilliant.”

“Not confused, or angry? You don’t feel like he took advantage of you?”

“What? No, Jadzia, I’m perfectly fine! You make it sound like he assaulted me!”

“I’m not judging you. Believe me, I know how overwhelming it can be.” When Julian nodded slowly, she continued, “Did you two talk it over ahead of time?”

“It was spontaneous. He admitted as much afterward. Of course, he seemed prepared, but that’s nothing new for Garak. I doubt much could catch him off guard.”

“So you _did_ talk about it, just afterward?” That was a partial relief. She could understand getting caughtup inthe moment, but it was easy for a night to end in disaster when there weren’t any clear boundaries set from the beginning. Especially when things escalated as quickly as this.

He frowned. “You think I’ve made a mistake.”

“We all know you’re pretty impulsive, Julian. Especially when it comes to Garak. I guess now we know why, don’t we? Remember when you burst into Ops and interrupted Commander Sisko’s conversation with Dukat—all because of something Garak said?”

“He _did_ end up being right.”

“That’s not the point. It’s the way you went about it.” Suddenly Jadzia wished she hadn’t encouraged this; she’d anticipated the two of them having a quiet dinner date discussing literature and sipping wine. Like an evolved version of their lunch dates. Fooling around was bound to happen, but she didn’t expect Garak to immediately toss her friend into serious bondage play.

“Do you think I should break it off?”

There was no missing the disappointment in his voice. Jadzia covered his left hand and gave it a brief, encouraging squeeze. “You need to do what makes you happy, Julian, and if this is what does it for you, then I’d be a terrible friend to convince you otherwise. I just want you to be safe.” When Julian visibly relaxed, she sat back and raised her brows. “You know, I have some experience in this subject.”

“Somehow I'm not surprised.”

“Curzon had a pretty wild, kinky side. He considered himself a switch—he enjoyed being both dominant and submissive. He couldn’t resist the slap of leather. And Tobin was intobreathplay. I don’trecommendedit. At least for a beginner.”

“And what about Jadzia?”

“Oh, let’s see.” She felt her mouth quirking into a grin. She’d always been flattered by Julian’s interest—would it be mean to have fun with this? “I’m a bit of adommemyself. At the Academy, I had a boyfriend who’d dress up as a maid. Frilly dress and all. I’d paddle him over the ass whenever he did anything naughty. And he was very, very frequently naughty.”

Julian cleared his throat, shoveled forkfuls of fried egg into his mouth. “All right, now I wish you hadn’t told me.”

“You _did_ ask.”

“And I regret it.”

“I envy you, in a way. You’ve opened yourself up to a new world of experiences, and they’re all ahead of you. You’ll get to dabble, find out what you really like.” While Jadzia didn’t approve of Garak’s seemingly cavalier attitude to safety, she had a feeling he had a numberof tricks up his sleeve. So to speak. And she’d seen the way Garak looked at Julian. He’d take good care of him. Maybe they’d be okay. “It can be very rewarding,” she added.

“I hope so.” He smiled. “I really want this to work out.”

Jadzia felt a surge of protectiveness for this gentle, trusting man. _This better not be a long con, Garak,_ she thought, _or you’ll find that I know how to exact a beating._

And not the fun kind, either.

* * *

Julian didn’t tell Jadzia about the butt plug. While he appreciated having her as aconfidante, there were some details best kept private. And he wanted to keep this little secret between him and Garak.

It almost felt illicit, that night, when he replicated the lubricant. He was fresh from a shower, having anticipated this moment all day. The blue sex toy remained on the pillow where he’d left it that morning. Lubricant in hand, Julian plucked it up and studied its contours.

Up ‘til now, he’d been rather conservative in his masturbatory habits. He didn’t even use lotion. It was just him, his hand, and whatever amateurholopornfloated in his direction. This addition would disrupt his whole routine.

Julian keyed his console to search for new criteria. He browsed the results, selected those that caught his fancy, and let the cost deduct from his account.

Popping the cap off the lubricant, Julian smiled down at the butt plug. “Well, my new friend, let’s see what you have to teach me.”

* * *

Garak was already standing in line at the Replimat when Julian sidled up beside him, tray in hand. Just the usual routine, nothing to be uncomfortable about here. “Hello, Garak.”

“Doctor! Good afternoon. How is life in the infirmary?”

“Routine, thankfully. I hope it stays that way. Speaking of which, you’re overdue for your physical.”

“Really, doctor, this hardly seems to be an appropriate place to discuss my private medical history.” Garak contemplated his food options before selecting Bajoran fare. “Have you had the chance to pick up the item I recommended? How is the fit?”

Julian glanced around, making sure no one could overhear their conversation. He ordered a bowl of spiced plomeek soup and murmured, “A bit snug.”

“You’ll find that’s normal. Much like high-quality leather, it needs a chance to break in.”

 _More like break_ me _in._

“The more often you wear it, the more comfortable it’ll become. Like a second skin. In fact—” Garak leaned into Julian’s personal space, expression causal, voice low. Julian felt giddy at the sudden closeness. “I recommend you wear it at  _all_   _times_.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I would never joke about such a sensitive subject. Come, our table is available. Have you finally finished  _Dénouement_   _of_ _Ikar_ _?”_

To Julian's relief, it turned out Garak considered the novel a badly written, heavy-handed reinterpretation of a beloved Hebitian myth that had been butchered in the author’s misguided attempt to make it accessible to a modern Cardassian audience. Back and forth they went, ripping into the rubbish novel with its dull characters and self-indulgent language, Julian offering his own criticism of Earth literature he’d long found overrated. Analysis of Preloc was stimulating, sure, but this was _fun_. It was so engrossing, Garak had to remind him to eat.

“In a way,” Julian said, “Ikarreminds me of a goddess of ancient Greek myth. Athena. Though I admit I’ve always been partial to Asclepius.”

“Ah. Is that the goddess of nubile women?”

Julian pursed his lips at the jibe. “Demi-god of medicine, actually.” The _smartass_ following that sentence was implied. “No, the goddess of love and beauty was Aphrodite. But as I was saying, Athena’s origin story is rather fascinating. Her father Zeus impregnated the goddess Metis, and he was so afraid the child would be stronger than him that he swallowed her.”

“Swallowed her,” Garak repeated.

“Hardly the strangest thing Zeus ever did. Upon devouring his lover, Zeus came down with a powerful headache. So the god Prometheus split his head open with anaxe, and out flew Athena.” 

“How fanciful.”

“Quite. Zeus was a bit of a cad. He was notorious for throwing lightning bolts and taking the form of animals to seduce mortal women.”

Garak looked scandalized. “Tell me, doctor, is bestiality a common theme in human religions?”

“Some more than others.” 

“While I’d love to discuss this _intriguing_ matter further, I have to be returning to my shop.” Garak stood, turning to bus his tray, and Julian felt a strange desperation overtake him. Before he could say anything, Garak paused. “What are you doing tomorrow evening, by chance?”

Julian fought the urge to put his desperate, knee-jerkthoughts to words. That would only spoil the game.Insteadhe settled for a smile he hoped was as heavily nuanced as intended. “I’ll be in my quarters, enjoying a good book.”

Garak bowed his head. “A most practical use of one’s time.”

* * *

The wait reduced Julian to a ball of nerves. He popped the cap off a bottle of whiskey, reconsidered. No, Jadzia had specifically cautioned him to stay “safe and sane.” Best not to even begin to indulge, no matter how much he might need it.

Julian draped himself across the couch in a show of forced relaxation. _I am at ease_ , he insisted. _Just hanging out, enjoying the quiet of my empty quarters._ He was still in his uniform; over the past hour, he’d had enough time to think and rethink his clothing options to warrant three wardrobe changes. The uniform was the safest choice—simple, easy to strip off.

Covering his eyes with a palm, Julian contemplated asking the computer for the _nth_ time to locate Garak. _Patience_. It’s not as if Garak were ex-Obsidian Order and quite capable of telling time because agents didn’t just schedule assassinations willy-nilly and _where the hell was that bastard?_

The door chimed.

Straightening, Julian sucked in a breath and affected a posture of nonchalance. “Enter.”

Garak strode in, carrying a black duffle bag along with him. “Good evening, Doctor!”

“You’re late.”

“Fashionably?” Garak stopped in the middle of the room and smiled. “I was under the impression you’d be reading.”

Julian squirmed, tried to pass it off as a stretch. Damn, that plug was uncomfortable. “What’s in the bag?”

“Hm? Oh.” Garak released his hold of the bag. It landed with a loud _thump_. Julian jumped. “My equipment.”

Eyeing the bag warily, Julian clapped his hands and stood, inching closer to his guest. “I’m, ah, sorry. I got tired of waiting, so I already ate.”

“I’m not hungry.”

So much meaning, infused in only three words. Garak closed the distance between them, and then that clever mouth was on his. Julian moaned, hands going to Garak’s face, pulling him in. When they finally broke apart, they were already breathless.

“Before we, ah, start,” Julian began, meeting Garak’s eyes, “I want to establish something. I want a safe word. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but Jadzia recommended it, and I think she—”

“You told _Lieutenant Dax?”_

“Yes, Garak!” Julian felt his voice rise in defense. “I trust her, and I couldn’t just keep everything to myself!”

“That was precisely the idea of discretion! Did I not say—”

“I heard you! But she’s my friend, and she promised she wouldn’t—”

“Forgive me, Doctor, if I don’t put much stock into the promises of Starfleet officers! One word to Sisko, and—” Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Garak walked toward the door, stopped.

“I couldn’t lie to her.”

“You didn’t  _have_  to—that’s my very point. Perhaps this is a hard concept to grasp for a human, but you aren’t obligated to disclose every facet of your life to everyone who crosses your path. But since you  _insisted_  on telling her,  _I_ surely didn’t need to know about it!”

Julian frowned. “You’d want me to withhold that from you?”

“Yes!”

Running his fingers through his hair, Julian pondered the patterns of the carpet. “I couldn’t do that.”

They were fighting. Already. He’d really fucked this up, but still didn’t feel he’d done anything wrong. Not really. Keeping a secret was not beyond his capabilities, but his relationship with Garak was different from the shame of his genetic status. Julian needed a friend to confide in, someone who would tell him if he was going off the deep end, someone to offer advice. Not that Garak would ever understand that.

He took a tentative step toward Garak, who still hadn’t turned to face him. “Are you going to leave?”

_Please don’t go._

“I expected you to betray my trust, eventually. Not so soon.”

Julian winced. He came around until they were standing side by side. Garak’s face didn’t show any anger, just the stony resolution of one coming up with a plan. Damage control. “She won’t tell Sisko,” Julian said, “but if he finds out, I’ll take full responsibility for it.”

At that, Garak laughed. “Your willingness to fall on your sword is noble, doctor, but it won’t matter.”

Julian opened and closed his mouth, unsure of what else to say.

“But,” Garak continued, quoting, “what’s done cannot be undone.”

He seized upon that, and caught Garak’s arm, beseeching him with all his charm. “Let’s start over. Please?”

Garak’s eyes flicked over, staring as if there were a devil clinging to his limb. “Start over?”

“Nix that. Not from when we first met, just—how about we forget the past five minutes ever happened?”

Garak paused to consider it. “A shared deception, you say? Very well, it’s been stricken from the record. For now. I reserve the right, however, to punish you at a later date.”

“That . . . seems fair.”

“Then it’s settled.” Garak leaned in until their faces were inches apart. “Now, dear doctor, you were saying something about a safe word?”

“I—yes.” Julian cleared his throat. Damn Garak’s ability to change demeanors on a dime. “Kukalaka.”

“And what is a Kukalaka?”

“Not a what, a  _who_. He’s my bear. I’ve had him since I was a boy.”

Garak glanced around in earnest. “Where?”

“I keep him in my bedroom.”

That seemed to only unnerve him further. “Doctor, I was under the impression that bears are a rather large megafauna native to Earth. In keeping with station security, I’m going to guess that you don’t have one locked in your bedroom.”

Julian smiled. “You’re right about that. He’s a _teddy_  bear. A stuffed toy shaped like a bear. Much cuter and cuddlier than the real thing.”

“And you’re sure you wouldn’t prefer a word—” Garak paused, and for a second Julian expected him to say _less childish_ , but he was far too polite for that. “With fewer syllables?”

“Quite sure.”

“Very well, remember it. Did you do your homework?”

“Yes, but I don’t know what the point was in—”

“Hush. You’re no longer permitted to ask questions. Go strip out of that hideous uniform and turn off your universal translator.” When Julian hesitated, Garak barked, _“Now!”_

Julian rushed out, making a beeline for the bedroom. There, he kicked off his boots and uniform, tossing his socks into a corner. His medical kit was sitting beside the nightstand. Snapping it open, he had the translator disabled in short order.

When he emerged, he found Garak in the living room lining up an array of implements upon the table. Julian knelt behind him, hands behind his back, keeping his expression passive.

“I thought I told you to strip,” Garak said mildly, then froze. He whirled around, eyes zeroing in on Julian’s underwear. If it could even be called that. “What an intriguing garment.” He drew close, snapping the thin strip of elastic around Julian’s waist with a single finger. “You may as well be naked.”

Julian basked in the attention. This would never get old.

Garak returned to the table and selected an object that looked like a riding crop, only a tad larger. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

Julian met Garak’s eyes. He’d never done this before, but the script was vaguely familiar. Almost intuitive. “Yes . . . sir?” The word tasted weird in his mouth when directed at Garak, but he ignored that. Certainly it could become reflexive, just as it was reflexive when addressing a superior in Starfleet. 

“With less hesitance next time.” Garak slapped the crop against his palm and said something.

Something. Julian shook his head, unable to understand it.

Then panic set it. _Oh god, he’s speaking Kardasi._

Garak repeated the words, slower thistime,as if talking to an imbecile. It was a definite order, but how was he supposed to comply when he didn’t even understand?

“I—”

The leather tongue of the crop landed on Julian’s shoulder. Not hard enough to sting, but the threat was there. Right. No speaking in Standard. Before he could gather his thoughts, try to focus, Garak flicked him in the forehead and said a word he definitely recognized: _idiot._

 _Thanks, Kira._ She’d said that the exact translation was a combination of “idiot” and “worthless,” but there was no need to split hairs here.

Garak released a long-suffering sigh at his slow-witted pupil and tried another tactic. He made a gesture with one hand, to indicate speaking. Okay, got that. Then he said another word, slowly, enunciating every letter.

Julian mouthed the letters, then realized that what he was saying, quite literally, was _“letters.”_ Alphabet. He squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head in embarrassment.

Garak chuckled and muttered a definite insult. Probably a disbelieving observation about how he’d somehow graduated from Starfleet Medical.

Squaring his shoulders, Julian began to recite the extended alphabet, including diacritic letters and ligatures. He was about halfway through when Garak interrupted to correct his pronunciation.

Julian frowned. He’d never considered himself a natural at languages—he was more the mathematics, scientist type—but he had a good ear, and if he was skilled at anything, it was memorization. “Are you sure?”

Garak’s eyes widened.

“I’m sorry!” Julian burst out. “Of course you’re sure. I’m—”

Garak grabbed him by the earlobe. Julian shouted in pain as Garak hauled him to his feet and dragged him to the desk. A hand caught the back of his neck and roughly bent him over. Arousal shot through Julian, despite the humiliating position of having his ass in the air.

“How impertinent you are,” Garak purred. “Do you think you know my language better than I do?”

Julian trembled. “No, sir.”

“Who is in charge here?”

“You are, sir.”

“I don’t believe you’ve yet learned your lesson.” A rough hand slicked with a scented lotion caressed Julian’s ass cheeks. It was sensual, gentle, rubbing the lotion deep into his skin. He tried not to sigh in pleasure. “I’m sorry I have to do this, _a’latli_ , but I assure you it’s for your own betterment. When I’m through, you’re going to ache for days, remembering this very moment. Lie still.”

Then the gentle, kneading hand disappeared, and the only sound was Julian’s own heavy breathing. He shivered, feeling all too vulnerable. What was he going to do?

And then the slap came, loud against Julian’s ass, sending a jolt through him. He gasped, tried to process the sting of the palm, and the second blow landed, hard as the first. The third was harder still. Julian wriggled but held still. By the sixth, he was near savoring the unexpected bite of each smack. Some spanks came fast and light, others deeper and lingering longer. Soon he was crying out and yelling. The skin of his ass felt on fire.

Garak leaned in, the hand returning to the back of Julian’s neck. “That was for being so slow to catch on to my wishes. I’ll expect better of you henceforth.” Then the hand slid downward, pushed aside the pouch of Julian’s g-string, and took hold of his erection. Garak stroked him into full hardness.

Julian’s knees trembled and he leaned further on the desk, legs spread to allow Garak full access. He wanted nothing more than to pump into that hand, for Garak to slide out the buttplug and fuck him. The thought almost sent him over the edge. Instead he settled for moaning.

Garak slid something over his cock and withdrew his hand. Julian could feel the tightness at the base. A cock ring.

“Now,” Garak said, “to address your impertinence.”

Julian lifted his head in alarm. A moment ago, he was certain they were done, and now—what was he planning? Julian had only seen the riding crop. What other instruments did Garak have? A wood paddle? A bullwhip?

“You can take this,  _a’latli_ ,” Garak said. “You  _will_ take this. Because I bid it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you will count every strike in Kardasi. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” He was proud that his voice didn’t tremble.

He heard a swish of fabric as Garak swung back his arm, then the slap of something leather against Julian’s bare skin. The blow was stunning. Not the riding crop. Julian swallowed, counted one.

The next spank was directed upward, sent him reeling in a new direction. He counted two. Definitely not the crop. It was much too wide.

The third caught both cheeks at once, the aftershocks of which rumbled through his whole body. He counted three, stuttering out the word.

There was no way he could handle too many of these.

This time, by the sixth blow, he was trembling, the pain hot and incredible. His cock felt swollen. His ass burned in both pain and deep need, resonating from the fullness of the buttplug stuffed inside him. Julian balled his fists to keep hanging on, blinked away tears. The tenth spank left him half-moaning, half-sobbing.

When the eleventh came, his mind drew a blank. He’d forgotten the Kardasi word.

Garak tapped his fingers against Julian’s ass, expectant. Julian grappled for the word, desperately repeating the numbers in his mind. There was a suffix—-

“The brilliant Doctor Bashir,” Garak hissed, “can’t even count past ten?”

“Gar—”

Another spank, this one brutally hard. It sent him reeling forward.

“ _Ten_ ,” Garak said.

Then another. Julian gasped, sobbing.

“ _Ten_ ,” Garak repeated.

No, no, no. “Please, Garak,” he choked through his tears, “please, sir. I’ve learned m-my lesson. Okay? I’ll be good, sir, I will. P-please, stop.”

“Remember your safe word.”

Julian shook his head. No, the pain was incredible, but he could handle this. He just had to—

“No? Then I’ll judge when your punishment is over.” Smack. “ _Ten_.”

It was like he was melting into the desk. Julian clutched the edge, jolting at every harsh slap, while Garak repeated the same number, waiting. How could he concentrate like this? They were stuck in a loop, seemingly endless, and for a second it was as if he were floating in space, disconnected from his body, unable to feel the pain or the overwhelming arousal. Time drifted away from him. 

Then he snapped back, and he had it. He  _had_  it.

When the next spank came, he was ready. “ _Eleven! Eleven!_ ”

Garak’s fingertips brushed against the sensitive curve of his ass. Despite the gentleness of the caress, Julian hissed. “Oh,  _a’latli_ ,” Garak said, “you’ve turned such a magnificent shade of red. I must get a swatch of this. I’ll call it ‘Bashir crimson.’”

Julian chuckled, a bit hysterically.

“Back to your knees.”

Julian felt a twinge of annoyance, tired as he was, but some nebulous force within him overran it. He couldn’t argue with Garak’s tone of voice. Wiping tears, he lowered himself gingerly to the floor, careful not to sit on his heels. He kept his attention trained on the carpet, unable to make eye contact. 

Something redolent of leather touched the underside of his chin, guiding him upward until he was staring up at Garak.

Garak smiled and drew back the item so Julian could see. It was a simple strap of hard leather, folded in half. “Now,” Garak said, “you will kiss this and thank me for punishing you.”

The urge to refuse this new humiliation reared up; Julian resisted this impulse as well, more worried about what Garak would do if he didn’t cooperate. He leaned forward, kissed the surface of the strap that had brought him over the edge of sobbing just minutes before. “Thank you, sir,” he said, shakily, forcing himself to look Garak in the eyes. “Thank you for spanking me. I deserved every bit of it, sir. I’m sorry for questioning your wisdom.”

“You’re quite welcome,” Garak said, “and—”

“Could you hold me?” Julian blurted. He instantly felt a wave shame for it, adding, “I mean, please, sir?”

An emotion flashed across Garak’s face. Concern? It was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Come over to the sofa.”

“I’m sorry, I just—”

“No need to explain, Doctor.”

Julian wasn’t sure if that meant Garak understood the flood of disconnected emotions running through him, or if he merely didn’t want him to elaborate. The shame persisted as he realized Garak likely had many activities planned for the rest of the evening, and his neediness was cutting that short. But if he couldn’t feel Garak against him this instant, he was sure he would crumble into a mess. There was no logic to it.

At first he crouched beside Garak, careful not to let his bum touch the scratchy fabric, head resting on his shoulder, but when Garak wrapped an arm around him, he snuggled closer, not giving a damn how ridiculous he must’ve looked with his reddened ass, erection, and cock ring. They stayed that way for a long time, Julian inhaling Garak’s strange and unique scent, being held and enjoying every second of it.

“Thank you,” Julian whispered.

“There is no need to thank me for this,  _a’latli_. I’d be failing my duty to you if I didn’t provide what you needed.”

Julian pondered that, unsure what to make of the statement. _His duty to me?_ Was there some kind of Cardassian social cue here that he was missing? Cardassians were highly family-oriented, but that didn’t seem to apply here. Did Garak view himself as Julian’s protector, of sorts? Strangely, Julian didn’t mind that concept nearly as much as he would have a month ago. Still, he didn’t want to ruin the moment by asking.

“How are you feeling?” Garak asked.

“Better, I think.”

When Garak sunk his teeth into Julian’s shoulder, he was ready for it. He arched into it, moaning as Garak bit him all over, nibbling at his neck and nipples, tongue darting out to soothe the over-sensitized flesh.

Julian climbed onto Garak’s lap, straddling his waist, and caressed the ridged scales along his jaw. “May I touch you?”

Garak inclined his head.

Curious and exhilarated, Julian ran his fingers across his cheeks, his nose, his chin, down his throat and to the neckridges. The neckridges seemed especially sensitive to stimulation, causing Garak to groan with even the lightest touch. He rubbed the soft scales, marveling at the way they darkened in hue.

“You know,” Julian whispered, kissing Garak softly, “I would’ve never guessed you for a schoolmarm.”

Garak favored him with a wicked grin and caught Julian’s lips in a kiss. “You’ll find I can wear many hats, Doctor,” he said, stroking Julian’s inner thighs. He reached between Julian’s legs to grasp the base of the buttplug.

Julian arched. “Oh!”

“I want you to ride this.”

Julian whimpered and nodded.

“But don’t come until I give you permission.” Garak kissed Julian again, pulled the dildo out enough to slick with lube, and pushed it back in. Where the lube had come from, Julian couldn’t guess. Garak seemed to carry a small arsenal of sexual equipment on his person at all times. “Ride it as if it were me inside you.”

Groaning, Julian lifted his hips, feeling the dildo withdraw as Garak held it in place. He lowered back down, shuddering in pleasure. “You can easily remedy that. Pull out your cock and fuck me. Sir.”

“Doctor! On only the second date? What do you take me for?”

Julian laughed and continued rocking his hips, letting the dildo slip in and out, teasing his sweet spot. As far as he was concerned, it was like the two of them had been dating for the past two damned years, exchanging lunches and flirtations. But he didn’t dare say that. After all, the bastard was still fully clothed, giving nothing away. And while Julian hardly thought Garak was a prude, shy, or even particularly modest, the man definitely played his cards close to the vest. Nothing would come from trying to wrest control away.

Garak’s free hand traced designs across Julian’s sweat-slick skin, twisting his nipples and flicking the nubs, sending electric jolts through him. He wanted to come so badly. It was a kind of torture, only exacerbated by the blasted cock ring.

“Consider this a trial run,” Garak drawled.

“And how’m I doing?”

“You could stand to go faster.”

Julian huffed and grasped Garak’s shoulders, using them as leverage as he licked and sucked at the scales there.  _I think I’m doing rather well,_ he thought,  _considering I’ve never done this before._ As instructed, he sped up, fucking himself on the dildo. Underneath him, Garak watched through heavily lidded eyes, smiling. It was maddening. “Can I—can I come?”

“Not yet.”

With growing frustration, Julian rode the dildo, struggling to keep his arousal at bay. He tried to picture various admirals naked, or in lingerie. Then Garak’s hand found his cock, and oh god that was cheating. He was going to explode.

“Now,  _a’latli_.”

Julian distantly heard himself howl as release hit him. Garak stroked him the whole way, as his cock continued to pulse and he shuddered. The moment the orgasm faded, he collapsed into Garak’s arms, a crumpled heap, more gelatin than man.

He dozed, dimly aware of Garak, pinned underneath him, stroking his hair.

“‘M sorry,” Julian slurred, “I think I just ruined your shirt with my . . . fluids.”

He wasn’t sure what Garak said in response. If he responded at all. Julian simply drifted in and out of blissful, contented sleep—

—and awoke the next morning, alone, in his bed. He groaned, scrubbing his face as he recalled how the last night had ended. Sprawled over Garak, probably snoring and drooling all over him. How could he just fall asleep like that? Garak must’ve been mortified.

Then his eyes settled on the black dildo sitting on his nightstand. He chuckled low in his throat.  _Well played, sir._

* * *

The customer was an elderly Bajoran gentleman looking to commission a waistcoat. Garak was flipping to the next fabric sample when Bashir wandered into the shop. How pleasantly unexpected. The doctor was walking with more care—not enough to be noticeable unless one knew what cues to look for. So Bashir hadn’t repaired the deep tissue injuries he’d sustained during last night’s activities.

But the doctor’s discomfort wasn’t only in his gait; it was written all over that lovely, open face. His eyes sought Garak out, and Garak caught his attention with his most charming customer service smile. He raised a finger, signaling that he’d be right there.

Garak placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “If you’ll excuse me for one moment. Feel free to continue browsing the samples. I highly recommend you pay considerable attention to thespidersilkin the dusky green.”

Bashir had meandered his way to a rack of outerwear near the back of the shop, far from his lone customer’s hearing range.

“Welcome back to my humble establishment, Doctor,” Garak said. “How may I help you?”

Usuallythis little show of servility brought out at least the glimmer of a smile. Instead Bashir glanced at him, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. “I wanted to apologize to you.”

Garak hoped this wasn’t some form of post-coital despair. Although he’d prepared for the eventuality, this was hardly the appropriate time or place. “Oh?”

“For last night.”

“My dear doctor, if memory serves, you repented for your transgressions _more_ than adequately.”

This timehe got the smile he was aimingfor:shy, Bashir covering it up with one hand. If only the doctor had any idea what thatcoylook did to him. “I mean, for your shirt—”

“I’m touched by your concern for my wardrobe, but really, as I said, there’s plenty more where that came from.”

“—and for being so selfish.”

Garak was genuinely perplexed. “Selfish? You?”

Bashir fingered the sleeve of a sequined jacket. “I monopolized all your time, and you got nothing out of it. That sounds pretty selfish to me.”

It was easy to guess at what the doctor was intimating. If he had less control over his reactions, Garak might’ve laughed at the sheer naivety of the statement. Nothing out if it? But he reminded himself that Bashir was still operating under a different paradigm—one where sex required penetration and orgasm was the end goal. It would taketimeto break him from that expectation. “You couldn’t be further from the truth,” Garak said.

Bashir stepped toward him. Garak moved back, turned so their positions were reversed and Bashir was now facing the door. He had to maintain _some_ air of propriety here. “What _is_ the truth, Garak?”

Oh, he’d fallen into a trap he wasn’t aware he’d set, hadn’t he? How galling. “Julian,” Garak said, using Bashir’s first name to underline his sincerity. “You needn’t worry about me.”

“Because you’d tell me if you weren’t happy?” Bashir gave him a glance that said he wasn’t buying that. As well he shouldn’t.

“No.” Garak slipped into Bashir’s personal space and whispered in his ear, “Because _I have your_ _obedience_.”

When he pulled away, Bashir had lowered his eyelids. “Oh.”

“Now, I’m afraid I have no time for loiterers, so, goodbye, Doctor.” Garak’s hand went to the small of Bashir’s back, guiding him toward the door. _Out you go, my dear, before I say or do something I will regret._

Bashir must’ve taken some of his training to heart, because he let himself be ushered out, half smiling. 


	3. Chapter 3

Killing wasn’t the same without the implant. The thrill was there, followed by that familiar and hated _twinge_ , but the rush of endorphins—that exhilarating high to which he’d grown so accustomed—failed to materialize. Instead, Garak had found himself feeling only the ghost of pleasure. A Pavlovian reaction; salivation without the reward. It was a hollow betrayal.

Perhaps it would’ve been different if he hadn’t used the phaser. If he’d used his hands, seenEntek’sbody, maybe then it would all be as it once was. There was no way to tell. The opportunity to kill didn’t appear often while hemming pants.

More likely he was simply discombobulated from setting foot on Cardassia again.

Regardless, the sensation of loss lingered, even after they’d brought Major Kira back to the station, the entire affair dusted away. He ran the encounter over in his mind. Killing an old colleague hadn’t left him with any regret, depression, or any of the other myriad emotions many people claimed pestered them. So neither euphoria nor trauma, then. Merely an anticlimactic shrug.

None of this was unexpected, of course. The implant had been a crutch to help him deal with his insufferable life in exile aboard the station, and he’d never quite regained his usual stride without it. Nobody seemed to notice, however—not even Bashir—and for that he was thankful.

Ah, as for the doctor. That was entirely another matter. 

It had been many lonely weeks since their last encounter. They continued their lunches as usual, but Garak could easily spot the beginning of sub frenzy radiating in Bashir’s eyes whenever he looked at him. Oh, the doctor’s mind was _far_ from the subject of poetry; he couldn’t help but make lewd interpretations of prose and verse that were better suited to an adolescent. Bashir wanted more, and now. It was bound to happen. Predictable. The doctor was new and excited, and that didn’t play well with his impatient, hedonistic streak. Bashir likely wasn’t even aware of it.

It would be easy to get sucked into that enthusiasm, give Bashir exactly what he wanted. Their desires fit like blade tosheath.

No, in this frenzied state, Bashir was likely to do something stupid. Declare his love. Ask to be publically humiliated. Demand a collar. Garak wouldn’t allow himself to get dragged into it. Best to slow down, ignore the young man until he calmed down enough to start up again.

Garak was well aware of the doctor’s pleading, expectant glances, the brazen innuendo that increased to a crescendo when Garak feigned ignorance. The hunger in his eyes was nearly obscene. Bashir knew better than to come out and ask for what he wanted, but that didn’t mean he’d wait passively.

At one point, Bashir had gone so far as to perform the clichéd trick—he’d “dropped” a fork while waiting in line at the Replimat, taking his time bending over to retrieve it.

“Whoops,” Bashir had said with an exaggerated slap of his own cheek that left Garak shaking his head in amazement.

Part of Garak—assuredly the part that relished wallowing in self-pity—hoped that Bashir would lose interest and give up. Move on. Find a young, nubile fling. It would be the cleanest break with the most minimal of effort, one where Garak would never have to take any of this seriously. This phase was destined to wear off.

Another man would’ve rebuffed the doctor’s advances with a blunt dismissal. After all, he’d dumped Bashir into the deep end. It was cruel to leave him treading water indefinitely.

Then again, nobody had ever accused Garak of benevolence.

It was two days after arriving back from Cardassia when Garak finally decided that Bashir’s frenzy had run its course and he was fit for service. So to speak. He found the doctor in the infirmary, tending to a young human and his hovering, handwringing mother. “Bend your elbow now,” Bashir was saying to the child. “Isn’t that better?”

The child flexed his arm experimentally and nodded.

“But Doctor Bashir,” the mother cut in, “are you _sure_ he can’t go to the racquetball game tonight?”

“I wouldn’t advise—”

“He’s been practicing for months, and his father—”

Garak averted his attention as one of Bashir’s underlings approached, eager to help in all his medical needs. He was trying to shoo the nurse away when Bashir glanced over.

Upon spotting Garak, his face lit up, dazzling. It was flattering to be the object of that smile. “It’s okay, Nurse Jabara,” he said. “Mister Garak is fit as a fiddle.”

Jabara shot Garak a withering side-glance that he pretended not to notice and disappeared.

Bashir rid himself of his patients in short order and hurried over, passing a sanitizer over his palms. “Well, well, well,” he said, affecting the air of a badholosuitevillain. “Mister Garak, I never thought I’d see the likes of you in my infirmary. Under your own power, no less!”

Garak bowed at the neck. “I’m terribly sorry for arriving unannounced, dear doctor, but—” He rubbed the fingers of one hand together in a gesture of nervousness and flicked his eyes to the side. “I think I’d rather this be discussed privately.”

The enthusiasm drained from the doctor’s face, replaced by worry. “Of—of course. We can talk in my office.”

 _A fool and his virtue are soon parted._ Garak followed.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been available since you got back,” Bashir was saying. “I heard about what happened.”

 _He thinks I’m traumatized._ It was endearing. From anyone else, it would’ve been intolerable. Unfortunately, he had no use for pity.

Once they’d crossed the threshold of Bashir’s office, the door swishing shut, Garak slammed his palm on the door lock. Bashir jumped, caught one look at Garak’s face, and backed into a wall.Rightwhere Garak wanted him.

Garak gave the doctor a shove and bit him through the turtleneck. Bashir yelped and grabbed at Garak’s shoulders, first holding him back, then pulling him closer. Inhaling the doctor’s scent, Garak nipped his way across Bashir’s jaw and found his mouth eager for the attention. That mouth. Bashir tasted of raktajino and when the doctor slipped his tongue between Garak’s lips, he groaned and sucked it deeper. They lingered that way, swaying and tasting each other.

Garak began pulling down the zipper of Bashir’s jacket. Bashir stilled his hands, covering them with his own. “Garak,” he whispered, voice thick. “You didn’t need to trick me to get me alone.”

“You’d rather I scheduled an appointment?” 

“Well, when you phrase it that way . . . ”

“I’ve missed you.”

Bashir’s head jerked in surprise. “Then where’ve you _been?”_

“Why, Doctor, I haven’t gone anywhere.”

“I don’t know why I expected an explanation,” Bashir said, sighing, lips quirked in a smile. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve been wanking with that damned dildo, waiting for you? It’s been _weeks_. Were you just trying to torture me?”

The mental image of Bashir pleasuring himself was one Garak would treasure until the grave. He resolved to see it for himself, one day. “My dear, that is nothing to the exquisite tortures awaiting you.” 

Bashir arched, exposing his lovely erection. Garak repositioned his legs, letting the doctor rub against his thigh. Bashir drew him into another kiss. Garak’s own arousal was growing into a suffocating weight on his chest. He fullyeverted,unfastened Bashir’s pants, and yanked them down. The doctor stammered out a protest, moving to pull them backup,when Garak snapped open his own belt and followed suit. He kicked his pants aside, creasesbedamned.

Bashir’s eyes widened to saucers.

Garak had to balance on his toes to bring their cocks into alignment; Bashir, always quick on the uptake, grabbed Garak’s left leg, drawing him up, holding him steady while Garak wrapped both of their cocks in his fist and pumped. That mammalian heat was incredible, pulsing against his scales, Garak’s natural lubricant joining them together. Already Bashir was sweating, filling the air with his musk. Garak lapped it up, tongue seeking exposed skin. 

“Fuck,” Bashir moaned, head lolling on his delicate neck. “Oh, fuck.”

Grunting, Garak sped up his strokes, brutal, ignoring the sweet sting of pain in his arm. 

Bashir panted, biting his lip, clearly on the verge of screaming.  “Can—oh please, sir? Can—can I?”

Garak grinned. _Good boy._ “Do it. Come for me.”

Bashir tensed and shuddered, covering Garak’s hand with his hot semen. The sensation sent Garak over the edge; he bit down on Bashir’s shoulder and pumped himself to completion.

They were still clinging to each other, gasping for breath, when Bashir’s comlink beeped with a medical emergency on deck twelve. The doctor laughed, face pressed to Garak’s shoulder. “What are you doing to me?”

“Everything you want,” Garak said. “Everything you want.”

* * *

Garak waited two days. Not because he wasn’t ready (oh, how ready he was!), but because he didn’t want the doctor to anticipate him, or, worse, get the wrong impression.

He overrode the locks on Bashir’s quarters and set to work. The intelligence agent in him wanted to take this opportunity to snoop and search for scraps of data on Starfleet or Julian Bashir’s best-kept secrets. But that was a habit easily ignored. If Bashir possessed any good secrets (doubtful), he had the hold over the doctor to pry it out with a simple curl of his fingers.

It tooklittletime to locate the support struts in the ceiling and drill the bolts. From there, he attached the ropes and rings. Garak climbed down from his collapsible stepladder and appraised his work. Good. Now to get everything else in order.

He monitored his trawlers, programming them to alert him should anything out of the ordinary transpire on the station. When the end of Bashir’s shift came, nothing had popped up. No mysterious viruses or marauders taking the station hostage. An uneventful day.

Garak was seated on the sofa, reading Bashir’s latest offering of Terran literature, when the man himself strode through the door. 

Bashir stumbled into a stammering fit upon spotting him. “I—ah! Garak! How’d you get—oh, never mindthat.I wasn’t expecting you! But you already know that. Not that I’m cross or disappointed or anything. I’m happy, really.” His attention went to the twin rings suspended from the ceiling. Grasping one of the rings, he grinned with a childlike expression of wonder. “The sex fairy was here!”

Garak laughed. “I’ve been called many things in my long life, but that isn’t one of them.”

“Only because you hide so well. I always assumed the sex fairy was aRisianwoman, but—”

“I’m sorry to disappoint.”

“—now I know the truth. He’s a Cardassian tailor, leaving behind dildos for all the obedient doctors in the galaxy.” Bashir gave an experimental tug on one of the rings. “That’s what these are for, right? Or are you planning to show me a gymnastic routine?”

“You may never find out,” Garak said, “if you don’t get out of that uniform.”

It didn’t take him more convincing than that. Soon Bashir was naked and kneeling in front of Garak, arms behind his back, head bowed, cock half-hard in anticipation. The young man was certainly a natural at this. Submission seemed to run through his veins. Perhaps an effect of having so many responsibilities, so many expectations, at such a young age. Garak traced an admiring finger over the bruises on Bashir’s neck and shoulder, evidence of their time in the infirmary. The bruises had faded to a sickly green. On Bashir, they were as beautiful as any jewelry.

Garak circled around, taking in the full sight of his subdued prey, pretending he was uncertain how to proceed next. “It’s due time I punished you for your indiscretion with the lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir. I deserve it, sir.”

Grabbing a fistful of Bashir’s hair, Garak pulled his head back, exposing his neck. “Have you continued discussing our relationship with the dear lady?”

Bashir hesitated, eyes going blank. Garak had never expressed his wishes one way or another; he was quite interested in how Bashir would choose to reply. Bashir cleared his throat. “No, sir.”

Garak felt a swell of pride. It was an obvious lie, of course, but it was the thought that counted. Definitely a quick study. He pulled harder on Bashir’s hair. “Are you sure?”

“Yessir. Not a word.”

Better, marginally. “Very well.” Garak released his hold on Bashir and continued circling. “Now, my dear, do you have any nicknames I should be made aware of? Oh, rest assured, I will use them to your disadvantage.”

Bashir’s entire body went rigid. Garak noticed the set of his jaw, the way his cock positively  _withered_. If he pressed his fingers against Bashir’s throat, he was certain he’d find his pulse racing.

“Sir—”

“Pet names?” Garak continued. “Coined by friends, past lovers?” No change in body language. “Enemies?”

“Family?”

Bashir twitched.  

“Family it is, then,” Garak said. “To my knowledge, you have no siblings, so that would leave other relatives. Parents?”

“Garak . . . ” Bashir began, half plea, half warning, before correcting himself. “Sir.”

Garak ignored the appeal. There was something here, something buried deep, so personal that the good doctor was _trembling_ at the very thought of it being discovered. “It couldn’t be all that bad, my dear. Could it? Perhaps a play on your first name, derivative of the Latin: Julius. Or a feminization, like Julienne. Julie. Juliette. But I’m hardly familiar enough with human naming structures.”

“Drop it, Garak.”        

“Excuse me?”

“Drop it, sir.  _Please_.”

Smirking, Garak ran his fingers across Bashir’s tense shoulders. “You’re so open about your life, even the most mundane. Yet you’ve never mentioned your parents. And here I thought you were so  _well-adjusted_.” When Bashir remained silent, staring ahead at the opposite wall, he closed his hands around Bashir’s shoulders, squeezing. “Of course, dear, if you don’t feel  _comfortable_ telling me, I can conduct my own research.”

Bashir snapped to attention, glaring up in barely restrained rage. “Leave it alone, Garak! It’s none of your damned business! I don’t want to play this game.”

“I suggest you reconsider your tone, boy. I told you I wanted total obedience, and I’ll have it.” One more prod. “Your parents live on Earth, don’t they?”

“ _No!_  You  _can’t_ contact them! Please, Garak, just drop it!”

Garak took a step back to watch Bashir; the young man was shaking, borderline terrified, on the verge of shouting his safe word. He’d expected some resistance, but nothing this severe. While Garak knew better than to make assumptions, he had to wonder what Bashir’s parents must’ve done to instill this kind of reaction in their son. And Garak thought  _his_  childhood had been miserable. In the end, however, none of that was relevant to the information he sought.

“Please,” Bashir whispered, “promise me you won’t contact them.”

“I won’t have to,” Garak said. He let the finality of that sink in.

Bashir’s expression turned desperate. Garak had seen it enough, recognized the slight flickering of the eyes as Bashir processed his scant options. There were only two, and while both would end in humiliation, one was objectively preferable to the other. Cooperating was the path of least resistance. Bashir opened his mouth to make another appeal, reconsidered. Wise; it wouldn’t have gotten him anywhere.

Bashir’s shoulders slumped forward. “Jules.”

“Jules,” Garak repeated, trying it out. “Like the French novelist?”

Bashir grunted in assent.

It wasn’t _that_ bad.

“I  _hate_  it.”

“ _Good._  Now, if your tantrum is over, go disable your translator and return here when you’re done.” Garak walked away, returning to the sofa where he retrieved the PADD and continued reading.

Bashir stared at him with a look of chagrin that gave way to anger. If Garak wasn’t holding up the PADD, he was sure Bashir’s glower would’ve melted the scales from his face. But the doctor rose to his feet to do as told. Just as Garak knew he would. The resentment might linger, but Bashir was clever. He was aware, perhaps only subconsciously, that the wall was coming down, whether he liked it or not. And that was exactly what Bashir wanted: surrender.

Bashir reappeared a few minutes later, still looking dejected, and knelt at Garak’s feet. Garak ignored him, attention focused on his PADD. How could someone be considered a wordsmith when he fabricated his words? Real skill came in churning art under rigid parameters. A Cardassian author would never take such liberties with a language that was already perfect. Beside him, Garak could feel Bashir squirming in impatience.

Garak made a lazy gesture. “Over by the door, I’ve laid out some implements. Pick out the one you want me to use on you.”

The corresponding “yes, sir” was mumbled. Garak barely heard it. Bashir moved to stand.

“Ah-ah!” Garak said, raising a finger. Bashir froze in place. “ _Crawl_.”

Bashir gaped, that same face he’d made when presented with the platter of sauce. He frowned, possibly contemplating whether this was all worth it.

“Get on with it, boy. I don’t have all night.”

Slowly, Bashir crawled his way across the floor as if it were unstable. He held his head high in an enviable yet pointless attempt to salvage his pride. With each crawling pace forward, he’d switch his technique, as if unsure whether it was more dignified to let his legs drag, or attempt to lift them like a four-legged animal. Eventually he seemed to settle on dragging them.

Garak watched his progress with a ghost of a smile. He observed the way Bashir’s firm ass moved with each graceless crawl forward. Oh, Bashir would make an exquisite footstool. One day.

At last, Bashir reached the place where Garak had set out the tools. No doubt he recognized that they were arranged according to the type and amount of pain they could inflict. Bashir knelt, trying to decide. He would be weighing what he wanted against what he thought Garak wanted. It didn’t matter what he picked, however; the choice was illusory. Garak had no intention of using any of those items tonight. 

Bashir seemed to select something in the middle: the flogger. A good choice; Garak made a mental note of it. When Bashir reached to grab the flogger, Garak was ready to stop him. But then Bashir hesitated, hesitated, fingers wiggling in indecision. At last, he leaned forward and took the flogger’s handle between his teeth. Garak sat up in surprise.

The look of defiance on Bashir’s face as he crawled back, carrying the flogger in his mouth, was adorable.  _My dear,_  Garak wanted to remind him,  _you’re doing exactly what I want._ But far be it for Garak to take that away from him.

Once Bashir reached the sofa, he knelt, offering the flogger between his teeth. Garak turned a page on the PADD. Then another. Bashir held the position admirably, especially for a novice, but Garak sensed his growing annoyance.  _Used to being the center of attention, aren’t we?_

Garak turned a last page, tossed the PADD aside. He accepted the flogger. “Good boy.” Garak patted his lap. “Up. I want you on your stomach.”

Bashir blinked. “That’s a bit weird.”

 _Said the man who just finished crawling across the floor._  “Did I ask for your opinion?”

“No, sir. Sorry, sir.” Bashir climbed onto the sofa and, smiling shyly, laid facedown over Garak’s lap. He wiggled his ass. “Like this, sir?”

Garak twirled the flogger, contemplating the doctor’s exposed ass. Perfect. He threw the flogger over his shoulder and reached into his jacket, plucking out a vial of green fluid. With one hand, he cupped Bashir’s ass, caressing the supple skin, drawing soft sighs from the doctor. With the other, Garak uncapped the vial and spilled out several drops before pocketing it again. His fingers spread the oil and massaged it deep into Bashir’s asscheeks.

Bashir squirmed, breath hitching as the oil worked its magic. Human skin was so delightfully sensitive to irritants. “Burns, doesn’t it, _a’latli_ _?”_

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Oh, look at you, across my lap like a disobedient child,” Garak drawled, running his nails along Bashir’s ass, leaving behind vibrant red trails. “How humiliating. If only Commander Sisko could walk in here and see you like this.”

Bashir shifted, clearly trying to hide his growing erection, but there was no disguising the way it pressed into Garak’s thighs. Hissing in pain, Bashir growled over his shoulder, “Are you going to talk all night, or are you going to punish me?”

That was more like it. Garak wanted deference, but not _too_ much. “Disobedient _and_ a brat.” Switching to Kardasi, he said, “Count them. To thirty. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Bashir replied in kind. His accent was atrocious. The tribulations of an educator.

Garak brought down his hand, waiting for the corresponding count from Bashir before administering the next spank. He paid special attention to the underside of the ass, varying placement and how his fingers fell on the skin. The blows were glancing, intended to sting and aggravate the oil, rather than deep smacks to the muscle underneath.

At thirty, Garak paused to shake out his arm and inspect his handiwork. Bashir was breathing heavily, sweating, rubbing his arousal against Garak’s lap ever-so-subtly. The skin of his buttocks had flushed a charming shade of pink, accentuated with the red trails Garak’s fingernails had left. It was hot to the touch, radiating more heat than normal mammalian flesh. The oil hadn’t yet caused any blistering—

Bashir scrambled, taking the opportunity to make a getaway. Garak caught him by the hips, yanked him down. “Bad boy,” Garak said, half laughing. When Bashir continued to resist, he grabbed a wrist and jerked the arm backward against Bashir’s shoulder blades until he cried out. That got him to behave.

“I see you haven’t been thoroughly punished yet.” The Kardasi words went over Bashir’s head, so Garak released the arm, grabbing him by the hair instead. Bashir gasped, followed the direction of the tugging, immediately catching on. He slid off Garak’s legs and onto the floor. Standing, Garak pointed to the rings. “Get over there.”

Bashir looked from Garak to the rings, then back again.

“Dumber than atarg,” Garak muttered with an affectionate smile.

Bashir scowled up at him. “Hey!”

“Understood that, did you?” GaraktoedBashir’s ass with his boot. “Go on, my darling genius. Your punishment awaits.”

Hesitantly, the doctor rose to his feet, glancing back at Garak to ensure he wasn’t expected to crawl there. When Garak only nodded, he approached the rings and grabbed hold, one in each hand. Garak reached behind the sofa, retrieving the spreader bar he’d hidden there. He didn’t like the way Bashir’s curious eyes were following him around. He’d fix that soon enough.

“Spread your legs.” Garak kicked the inside of Bashir’s ankles to punctuate the words. The doctor complied, and the sight of his exposed backside, ass cheeks raised and reddened, was a most lovely image to behold. Garak took four deep diaphragmatic breaths to keep fromeverting. Once he was back under control, he knelt, attaching the spreader bar’s cuffs to Bashir’s ankles.

Bashir was looking down, appraising the new attachment; Garak plucked a length of thick, black silk from inside his right sleeve. In a fluid movement, he wrapped the makeshift blindfold over Bashir’s eyes and tied off the knot.

“Ah!”

“You’ll come to be thankful for it, my dear.” Garak drew out two identical lengths of cotton rope from his jacket and tied Bashir’s wrists to the rings. “Comfortable?” Not expecting a response, Garak slapped the doctor’s ass hard before reaching into his jacket again. He removed the neutralizer and rubbed the gel over his hands before thoroughly coating Bashir’s ass and the red spot of skin on the wrist he’d twisted earlier.

Bashir sighed in obvious relief. “Thanks, that was bloody painful. Oops, sorry. Didn’t mean to, uh, say that in Standard.”

_Enjoy the respite, dear. It will be short-lived._

Garak reached for his riding crop where he’d propped it against the wall. It was, by far, his favorite of tools. Cardassian in design, a touch heavier than the Terran version, made to keep riding hounds in line. This was splendidly versatile, capable of cutting through the air like a sword. Perfect for both hard and light blows. More accurate than coil whips (though Garak would hasten to note that he was quite adept with those as well). It wasn’t as lovely as the loaded crop he kept as decoration, but that was more of a weapon, capable of breaking bone if wielded savagely, and Garak wouldn’t dare use it on Bashir’s soft, thin skin. Even with the lightest touch. Even if Bashir begged him.

Maybe.

He circled his bound and helpless prey, brushing the crop’s leather tongue across Bashir’s back, across his chest to skim pert nipples. By now, Garak was used to this strange mammalian holdover among males. For his part, Bashir stayed still, breath hitching when the crop grazed his inner thighs. So delightfully sensitive. He marveled at how each caress to Bashir’s sides spurred a shiver, how the fine hairs stood to attention with bumpy gooseflesh.

Should he offer a warning? Garak smiled—

—and brought the crop down on Bashir’s left nipple. The doctor flinched, gasped when Garak took the nub between his teeth and sucked. Oh, the noises this human made. Pulling away, he laid another whap of the keeper to the nipple before turning his attention to the right. By the time he was through with this torture, both areolas were red, glistening with saliva, erect.

Back into the jacket. Garak withdrew two clamps and fixed them to each nub.

“Ow!” Bashir cried out in Standard. “That  _hurts_ _!”_

“ _Quiet_. What else did you expect? You’ll handle it, or I’ll find someone more  _worthy_  of my efforts.” Garak flicked at the clamps, twisting slowly, appraising each hiss through Bashir’s perfect, clenched teeth. “Better.”

He brought the crop back to bear, whipping it around before slapping whatever bit of exposed skin he saw fit. Hard smacks to the back of Bashir’s thighs and shoulder blades, lighter slaps to the underside of his arms and across his belly. Every muscle in Bashir’s body was tense as he tried to anticipate the blows, despite being blindfolded. Foolish.

Garak chuckled, delivering a slap to Bashir’s cock. “You should relax, Jules. You’re only making the pain worse.”

Bashir sucked in a deep breath at the use of the dreaded nickname. Then, slowly, he seemed to do just that. He relaxed.

Garak narrowed his eyes. He caught Bashir’s chin in his hand. Still in Kardasi, he growled, “Did you switch off your translator as I told you?”

Bashir licked his lips and shook his head, uncomprehending.

Not good enough. “I have no patience for this, Doctor.”

“If you’re asking,” Bashir said between ragged gasps, “if I’m cheating—”

Ah-ha!

“I’m not.”

“As a liar, you are inept.”

Bashir turned his head in Garak’s direction. “I’ve known you for . . . going on three years, Garak. I know . . . I know your speech patterns. And . . . contrary to what you . . . might think—” Another deep breath. “I’m not as dumb as a targ.”

That would account for making obvious assumptions, perhaps, but not such a lucky guess. “ _Dumber_ than a targ,” he corrected. “That’s what I said.”

“You positively _lilt_  when you speak,” Bashir added. He was smiling now. Infuriating human.

So he’d been playing stupid earlier, testing Garak’s patience. Interesting.

“I see I’ve underestimated you, my dear. I won’t make that mistake again.” Garak was pleased, but didn’t let any of that bleed into his voice.

This time, instead of flicking the crop with his wrist, he used his entire arm. The smacks weren’t as loud, but the difference in force was obvious just from the howls Bashir made.

He dialed the pain up, applying more clamps to sensitive skin as he went: the inner thighs, the soft skin of the underarms, the side of the neck, the waist. Lastly he affixed smaller clamps to Bashir’s cock and scrotum. Garak circled around, randomly smacking the clamps with the crop as he went, causing them to pinch and tug and twist.

Bashir was biting off screams now, but he was eerily relaxed. Almost calm. Garak watched every reaction closely—each moan of pleasure or yelped curse or demand for more—eyes flicking occasionally to the ceiling to steel himself from the knee-jerk reaction to soothe. Now wasn’t the time. If he caved at this point, everything to which he’d been building would unravel.

This was much easier when the submissive meant nothing to him.

It would be no surprise if the neighbors above or below Bashir’s quarters called security. Of course he’d prepared for that, but it would take a great deal of finagling to maneuver out of that situation, and Garak preferred to avoid it.

Letting Bashir briefly catch his breath, Garak dropped the riding crop and knelt to delve into his bag. Items in hand, Garak stood in front of the doctor and stuffed a cotton handkerchief into his mouth, leaving enough fabric poking out to protect the lips. Bashir drew his head back in surprise. Garak tore off a length of wide tape and smoothed it over Bashir’s mouth, from ear to ear.

Garak switched back to Standard; sometimes being understood took precedence over leaving the target off-kilter. He whispered into Bashir’s ear, “If you must use your safe word, stomp the floor three times.” This was merely a comfort; if this went as planned, Bashir wouldn’t be coherent enough to use it. “Understand?”

Bashir was still for a moment. Frightened, reevaluating the situation. Perhaps he was already disassociating and couldn’t respond. Garak contemplated removing the blindfold.

Then Bashir nodded.

Impulse wanted to chide the good doctor for being so trusting. It was impressive, how far Bashir was willing to go, merely on his behalf. And disturbing. But that was the entire point of this.

Garak considered warning Bashir about what was to come, what to expect. No, he decided. That would only needlessly worry the young man. Terrify him, even. And there was nothing to worry about. He was in safe hands.

_Oh, but I’ve thought that same sentiment_ _before,_ _while applying pain under different circumstances, haven’t I?_

Waving a hand, as if the thought were a physical entity to be banished, Garak reached into a pocket and activated the clamps.

Bashir jolted, as if slapped by a giant hand. The gag muffled his cries. Luckily, Garak didn’t need verbal communication to read Bashir; his breathing was coming fast, his vocalizations becoming more like incoherent muttering. He swayed on his feet. Garak opened a drawer in the desk, where he’d hidden the hyposprays. Just in case.

Garak toyed with the settings, increasing the electric pulses. The shocks came in waves. There would be no forcing this. If Bashir was ready, he’d fly.

That should be enough.

Coming from behind, Garak slipped his arms around Bashir, kissing his way across flushed skin as he pried off the clamps, letting each one clatter to the floor. Bashir’s moaning became subdued; he leaned back into Garak as if about to fall. The ropes held him in place.

Garak pressed a kiss into a shoulder blade. Reaching around, he removed the clamps along Bashir’s nipples, down to his still swollen cock, enjoying each shiver of relief. “I’m very proud of you,” Garak whispered. “You did well, dear.”

With the clamps gone, Garak undid the fastenings of the spreader bar and gingerly peeled away the gag over Bashir’s mouth, followed by the blindfold. The ropes he untied last, catching the doctor as he swayed bonelessly into his arms.

Garak guided Bashir to the sofa and covered him with a blanket. Already the young man’s teeth were chattering, his pupils still blown wide. When Garak crossed over to the replicator, Bashir’s faraway gaze didn’t track the movement.

“Water,” Garak ordered, “thirteen degrees Celsius.”

As the glass materialized, an uncertain voice whispered his name.

“I’m here.” Garak returned, water in hand. He favored the doctor, curled up under the blanket, with an indulgent smile. “How do you feel?”

“Floady,” Bashir slurred, smiling as he nestled further in his burrow. “C’mere.”

Garak settled in beside him, stroking those lean shoulders through the blanket as Bashir snuggled, half sprawled in Garak’s lap. Although still coming down from the high, the doctor was coherent enough to take sips of the offered water and reply to Garak’s questions.

He was so warm, so close. It was maddening. Garak gave in to the impulse and leaned forward to brush his cheek against Bashir’s. To his surprise, Bashir returned the gesture, rubbing with a contented intake of breath.

 _Oh, you little fool. You have no idea what that means._ The thought was directed at Bashir, but it could’ve just as easily applied to himself, he decided.

Suddenly Bashir took Garak’s face in his hands and kissed him. “You don’t know,” Bashir whispered between the press of lips, “how that felt. I’ve never—thank you, Garak.  _Thank you_.”

Garak’s restraint, frayed by lust and need and desire and its thousand permutations, crumbled. He caught those soft lips into another kiss, desperate, tongue meeting Bashir’s in hot wet heat. _You’re welcome. You’re welcome to anything._ Bashir responded just as frantically, fingers entwining in Garak’s hair, pawing at his jacket.

“Please, oh please,” Bashir said, sucking Garak’s lower lip into his mouth. “I need you.”

Garak shrugged out of his jacket and unfastened the first three buttons of his shirt. “The feeling is  _quite_  mutual, doctor.”

And Bashir’s hands were on his wrist, tugging. “Bed—”

“No time.” Garak shoved the doctor to the floor, growled when he found the coffee table in the way. That wouldn’t do. He grabbed the table’s edge and flipped it aside, sending PADDs, a vase, and the glass of water flying. Much better.

Bashir let out a bark of surprised laughter. “You brute!”

“You have no idea.” Garak tore open his pants, the front wet with lubricant, and drew out his cock. He stroked it, slicking his fingers, and smiled down at Bashir.

“Please say you’re about to show me,” Bashir said, lying on his back, legs spread. No sight could possibly be more alluring.

Garak slipped two fingers inside Bashir, stretching, preparing him for—

Bashir caught his hand. “No, no, fuck it. Inside me, now!”

Garak raised an eyeridge, looked in the doctor’s eyes. 

Bashir’s human body language screamed back greed, lust, and submission. 

Garak didn’t need to be told twice. He gripped Bashir’s hips and pressed in, delicious heat enveloping him. It took all his remaining restraint not to plunge straight in, despite Bashir’s heels pressed into his ass, urging him on. Despite Bashir’s fists grabbing his shirt, dragging him closer.

And then he was full in, hilt deep. It was prime kanar. The sweet scent of blooming perek flowers. Tain’s smiling approval. Cardassian sunlight on his scales.

Garak moved, steady thrusts at first, then pounding as his cock slicked the way. Bashir met every thrust just as eagerly, clawing at his shoulders and back, howling. Shouting his name. Garak sank his teeth into tender flesh.

To his delight, Bashir bit back.

“You’re beautiful,” Garak whispered. And he was: naked, flushed, legs splayed, gold skin glistening with sweat. Bashir’s eyes fluttered. His mouth hung open. Garak couldn’t help but lean down for another kiss.

Bashir moaned. “Oh, Garak, more. Deeper. Feels _so good.”_

He happily obliged.

Later, when they were still entwined on the floor, catching their breath, Bashir took his hand. “Stay?” he whispered.

Garak squeezed the doctor’s trembling hand. This time, he stayed.


	4. Chapter 4

He must’ve caught nothing more than a few hours of sleep that night. Yawning, Julian stretched and slid from the bed. His muscles ached, and the joints in his hips howled their protests as he made his way toward the bathroom. When he noticed his reflection in the mirror, he gaped at the damage.

His skin was a patchwork of bruises—marks from bites and clamps covered him from neck to stomach. Angry red carpet burns streaked his backside. His inner thighs were a sickly purple, and his balls looked like they had just escaped a vice.  _God, and I’m not even the type to bruise easily._

“ _Garak!_ _”_

There were no footfalls to announce his arrival; Garak simply appeared, dressed in a fresh suit and sipping a mug of fish juice through a straw. Composed and dashing, the wanker. He appraised Julian’s appearance. “That shade of blue and green suits you, Doctor,” he said archly.

Smug arsehole. “That’s all you have to say for yourself? I look like a disaster.”

“At least  _I_ had the restraint not to break skin.”

“How nice of—wait, are you accusing  _me_ of hurting  _you_ _?”_

Garak cast him a patient glance and tugged at the collar of his shirt, revealing a crescent of dried blood over his neckridge.

Julian immediately grabbed his medical kit. That bite must’ve smarted like hell, especially considering how sensitive the area was. “I did that?”

“I hardly think I did it to myself.” Garak waved his instruments away. “No, there’s no need to trifle yourself. It’s easily concealed.”

“At least let me clean it. Hold still, you stubborn prat.” When Garak obeyed, Julian passed the sanitizer over the wound. As he worked, they exchanged a lingering smile.

It had been a long night rolling around in the bed, attempting new positions, reveling in the successes and laughing at the failures. Julian shivered pleasantly at the memory. He was lucky he was only sore and hadn’t awoken with broken bones, considering some of the force they’d used. He was even more surprised that Garak had not only stayed, but curled up with him in bed, one leg thrown over Julian’s. Garak had muttered in his sleep in Kardasi, and though Julian was deeply curious about what the words meant, he had been too tired and comfy to reactivate his translator.

Julian turned off the sanitizer and kissed Garak’s neckridge. “There. Good as new.”

“I beg to differ.”

“You’ve never heard of the healing power of kisses?”

Garak opened his mouth to reply, seemed to reconsider. He inclined his head and smiled. “Dear doctor. I must be going.”

Julian walked him to the door. In the living area, the table had been righted, PADDs collected in a neat stack, a new vase of fresh flowers (artfully arranged) sitting at its center. The rings were gone. There was no evidence of last night.

Julian glanced down at his torso. Well, almost.

* * * 

When Julian entered the lift, his neighbors from the habitat ring below were already aboard: a young Bajoran family. He waved a greeting. The husband frowned at him. The wife avoided his gaze, turning herself and their daughter toward the far wall. Rude.

It made for an awkward trip to the infirmary, but that didn’t get him down. He had a spring in his step as he mended bones, regenerated two sets of burns and one laceration, and tended to several types of flu. This mood was doing wonders for his bedside manner. Sure, the nurses were raising their brows, but that wouldn’t last.

Later, he was in Ops chatting with O’Brien while the chief lay on his back. A mass of wires encased the top of his body as he worked on the replicator. “Which I told her wasn’t right,” O’Brien was saying, “and of course she got mad at me, saying how—”

Julian nodded along, smiling. Why did he still feel like he was floating? On a cloud. Disconnected. It was an incredible sensation. He’d never felt this way with Palis.

“Bashir.”

He raised his head. O’Brien was sitting up, staring at him.

“Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

“Huh? Oh, you were talking about Keiko.”

“Yes, but specifically?” 

Julian struggled to recall the thread of conversation. When he drew a blank, he laughed it off. “Guess not.”

O’Brien stood, caught his arm. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

Julian let himself be guided to a far corner. He noticed Kira at her station, frowning at them, but that quickly fluttered out of his mind.

“Julian,” O’Brien began, getting all fatherly, “is something wrong?”

“No. Why?”

“You’re acting weird. Weirder. Even for you.”

“Well,” Julian said, fighting the urge to gloat, “I  _did_  start a new relationship. And it’s brilliant.”

O’Brien snorted. Actually  _snorted_ , like that meant nothing. “That’s not it. This is something else. You’re glowing like a—a pregnant woman!”

“I’m not pregnant. Do you want me to get my tricorder and prove it?”

“No—Christ, you’re annoying, you know that? I’m trying to help you here.” He leaned in, voice dropping. “Level with me: are you high off something?”

“ _What_ _?”_

“I just gotta be sure. Now I’m not accusing you of anything, but if you ever need to talk to somebody, I’m here. I was young too once, you know. Well, I still am, but—anyway, I know what it’s like, okay? You’re stressed, and experimenting around. Just, as a friend, be careful.” O’Brien patted his shoulder and left.

Julian watched him go.  _What was that about?_

_Me, on drugs! What utter nonsense._

He was halfway back to the infirmary when a horrible thought hit him.

No. He wouldn’t.

But Julian felt his legs picking up the pace until he was striding, nearly running, to his office.

Once there, he took a sample of his blood and ran it through, scanning for foreign compounds.

 _He wouldn’t,_ Julian insisted.  _Garak’s done questionable things in his past, but he’s regretted them. And there’s no doubting he’s capable of more than he lets on, but that doesn’t mean he’d drug me._

Especially not so obviously.

The scan chirped its completion. All clear.

Julian released a sigh, feeling like a total heel for even considering it. Not that Garak would ever be insulted like any normal person; he’d probably compliment Julian for his continued suspicions.

It was the end of his shift when he arrived in Quark’s to meet O’Brien for their usual round of drinks. He was still early; Julian scanned the crowd, glanced up to the balcony.

And there was Garak, sitting at a table with none other than Jadzia Dax.

“Oh, that’s bad,” Julian murmured to himself.

Jadzia was speaking enthusiastically with her hands, telling some kind of story, using her drink as a prop. For his part, Garak appeared to be listening in polite amusement. Jadzia swung an arm, pantomiming.

“That’s really bad.”

“Worried he’ll steal her away from you?” came Quark’s smug voice. “Or the other way around?”

Julian turned to where Quark was wiping down the bar. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I bet. They’d make a nice couple, don’t you think?”

Julian ignored the comment. Jadzia must’ve cracked a joke, because Garak laughed. Very bad news. These two segments of his life were not meant to cross paths. It was matter and antimatter. Time and anti-time. Chaos, entropy, the end of the universe. “How long have they been up there?”

“Fifteen minutes or so.”

That was fifteen minutes too long. As Julian navigated through the crowd, he heard Quark calling at his back, asking if he could get him anything. There was only one goal in his mind: breaking up this party.

He climbed up the stairs and approached their table. Garak noticed him first, eyes mischievous. “Good evening, Doctor.”

“Mister Garak.”  _Fine weather we’re having, Mister Garak, wouldn’t you say?_ “What have you two been talking about?”

Garak smirked; he probably considered it an inelegant question. Not enough finesse. Well, too bad—he’d be as blunt as he damn well wanted. “We were discussing sports.”

“Sports.”

“Tennis, actually,” Jadzia added. “You might’ve come up once or twice.”

She had to be saying that to make him squirm. Julian was about to reply when Garak stood, bowing his head. “I should leave you two alone. Good night, Lieutenant. I hope your date realizes what a terrible mistake he’s made, missing out on a lovely evening with you.” His eyes flicked to Julian with amusement. “Doctor.”

Julian mock bowed.  _Oh, I’m going to get you for this later. Just you wait and see._

When Garak was out of sight, Julian glared at Jadzia, taking the vacated seat. “What was that about?”

“Getting paranoid, Julian? Well, if you must know, I was sitting here alone with my drink, waiting for Ensign Javier to show up, when Garak wandered in, looking like a lost lamb.”

Garak, a lost lamb.

“And so I invited him to sit and chat with me until Javier arrived. It’s nothing more nefarious than that.”

“So you didn’t set this up?”

“Well, I doubt it was a coincidence—as far as I know, this is the first time I’ve ever seen Garak in here. I wouldn’t be surprised if Javier were tied to a chair right now, just so Garak could have an opening.”

“I was hoping he only reserved that treatment for me,” Julian muttered.

“I think he just wanted to make sure I could keep your secrets. It must be getting serious between you two.”

Julian scratched the back of his head. “Maybe. We’ve never really talked about it. Honestly, I’m afraid to bring it up. After our second encounter, he pretty much ignored me for weeks and then resurfaced with nary an explanation.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“No, I’m bloody  _not_  okay with that, but we're not talking about a man who excels in truth and openness. Can you imagine me sitting him down and saying, ‘Hey, Garak, let’s talk about  _us_ for a while’? I'd never get anything out of him.”

“So you’d rather he dictate the terms of your relationship?”

“I rather think that’s the way he likes it. Hell, our entire relationship is predicated on lies and half-truths.”

“Yet you trust him to dominate you?” Jadzia frowned, head-shaking her disapproval.

“Don’t look at me like that. You’re making me feel like an idiot.”

She pressed her lips together like she was holding back a snide remark; he was grateful when she didn’t voice it. “That must be some mind-blowing sex. It’s just going to get harder the longer it goes on, but it’s your decision.” She drained the last of her drink, added, “You know, you should try schooling your expressions, just as a precaution.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Let’s just say when you’re around Garak, you get this look on your face like you want to lick his boots.”

That was oddly specific. And alarming. “No, I don’t! Wait, is that a _thing_ _?”_

“I’m surprised you two haven’t already tried it.” She smiled. “He’s right, though. You did fly. I’ve seen that dreamy look enough to recognize it. You went over the edge, didn’t you? Did it feel magical, like you were floating in space? It’s different for every sub, but when I was Emony, I saw that look all the time. In the mirror.”

So _that’s_ what that was? Julian had feared he was losing his mind.  _Pleasantly_  losing his mind, if that were possible. “He  _told_ you that?”

“Not in so many words, no. I was doing most of the talking.”

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” O’Brien called out, plopping two beers onto the table. “I got held up with those damned replicators again. Hey, Dax, up for joining us?”

Julian and Jadzia exchanged a glance, letting the rest of their conversation peter out. Jadzia favored the chief with a polite smile. “Sorry, Chief. It looks like it’s just you two boys tonight. I’m waiting for someone.”

“Suit yourself. C’mon, Julian, I got us a table downstairs. Say, you’re looking a mite more down to Earth. Feeling better?”

“Grand,” Julian muttered.

* * *

Julian had to move fast to head off Garak before the Cardassian decided to break into his quarters and remodel the place into a dungeon for their next date. He still wasn’t entirely sure what that entailed, but if Jadzia were to be believed, it was terrifying.

He started with the food. There was no way he was learning how to passably cook in the next twenty-six hours, so that left him with ordering out. He perused every restaurant on the station before falling back on Quark’s. It wasn’t top quality, but nobody matched the bar’s variety and Quark’s ability to procure the most exotic of foodstuffs and undercut the competition.

Julian was flipping through the menu while Quark poured Morn another drink. He signaled the bartender.

“I swear,” Quark muttered as he came over, “if he doesn’t shut up I’m going to stab myself in the ears.”

“As long as it’s not while I’m on duty.” Julian pointed to the PADD. “How much Delavian chocolate do you have on hand?”

“How much do you want?”

“Enough for two people.”

“Oh, a romantic evening!” Quark’s eyes positively twinkled. “What else do you have in mind?”

“I was thinking about the cheese fondue—”

“Bad idea. Cardassians aren’t big on dairy.”

Julian gave him a dirty look. “What does _that_ have to do with anything?”

“C’mon, Bashir. Go ahead and fool your Starfleet friends, but have some respect for  _my_  intelligence, okay? You look at Garak the way I look at bricks of gold-pressed latinum.” When Julian opened his mouth to protest yet another one of these silly observations, Quark plowed over him. “Unless that look means something different in  _hew-mon_  eyes—”

“And how does he look at me?” Julian blurted. “If you’re so damn observant.”

“If you have to ask, you’re not paying attention. Look, you obviously need my help. You’re not dealing with your usual females. You’re dealing with someone _cultured_. Now—do you want this done the right way, or not?”

Julian took issue with Quark insulting his romancing abilities, but he couldn't help but be curious about what the Ferengi had in mind. After trying unsuccessfully to upsell him on a holosuite program, Quark had convinced Julian to let him take care of the evening, right down to suggesting what clothes to wear.

Once the arrangements were made, Julian left the bar to walk the Promenade and stare out the viewports at the void of space beyond. He recalled trying to have a serious discussion with Garak before, following his recovery from the implant. If _that_ hadn’t gone anywhere, why did Jadzia think they’d be able to have a transparent conversation about something as emotionally charged as their romantic relationship?

The least he could do was try.

The following evening, Julian watched helplessly as Ferengi besieged his quarters. Rom was first to appear with bundles of massive, multi-colored pillows of silk and satin. Then came others, bearing candles and frilly lace drapes. One rolled in a reflective pool and fountain. By then, it was too late to stop the parade. 

At least dinner looked good, Julian thought as one of Quark’s waiters arranged platters and bowls of colorful finger foods on a low table. The delicious aromas warred with the thick incense wafting in from the bedroom.

Quark appeared at last to survey the fruits of his labor. He nodded at the grotesque pile of pillows arranged around the table, then stuck his pinky into a bowl of gray dip intended for the Vulcan samosas, and tasted.

Julian bristled. _“Quark!”_

“What?”

“That’s disgusting!”

“My fingers are clean.”

“That isn’t the point. It’s unsanitary, and, and—” Julian made a helpless gesture. “And my quarters look like the inside of a brothel!”

Quark’s mouth formed a toothy leer. For all he knew, that was exactly the look the Ferengi was going for. _All I wanted was some damn food,_ he pouted as Quark appraised his clothing, nodding approval and tugging on the edge of his vest to expose more skin. _How did I let myself get tangled in this mess?_  

“I feel like you should be paying _me_ ,” Julianadded,and wiped sweat from his brow. Someone had increased the temperature to an unbearable degree. At least Garak should appreciate _that_.  

“Well, if this bar thing doesn’t work out—there are plenty of people who’d find a skinny young _hew-mon_ like you attractive. Sadly, Garak would never loan you out to me. Cardassians are so selfish.”

Julian really didn’t like how quickly that concept had popped into the Ferengi’shead,like it had been gestating for a while. “I’ll keep that inmind,if this _doctoring_ thing doesn’t work out. Quark, are you done yet? Because I’d very much like you to get the hell out of here.”

Quark clapped his hands and the other Ferengi filed out of Julian’s quarters. Before leaving, Quark said, “I took the liberty of leaving you some manuals on Cardassian oral sex techniques. Free of charge.”

“Get out!”

Quark bowed low at the waist and backed out. “Thank you for your patronage! If you should ever need further—”

Julian closed the door in his face.

There was still a way to salvage this. Julian went into the bedroom, finding it also full of glowing candles but thankfully nothing more garish, and dabbed out the incense spiraling smoke throughout the room. Once he could breathe again, Julian grabbed a bottle of lube from the bedside table and dropped his pants.

Afterward, he retrieved the PADD Quark had left behind. Might as well take a look. Julian reclined on the pillows and scrolled through detailed descriptions of Cardassian genitalia, of diagrams on the penile ridges. Each one had its own name, like a mountain range. Perhaps this wasn’t so bad.

He was absorbed in reading about the surprising practice of biting said penile ridges during oral sex when the door chimed.

Julian tucked the PADD underneath a pillow and lay back, stretching out with his bare feet crossed at the ankle. “Come in.”

“Good evening, my dear,” Garak said as he entered, and stopped to survey his surroundings, attention moving from decor to food to finally rest in obvious approval on Julian.

Quark had been right about one thing about the ensemble: Garak’s eyes did linger on his crotch. Julian arched back into the pillows, willing himself into the perfect picture of sexual docility.

“It seems you’ve redecorated.” Garak stroked the ugly curtains. “Your taste remains the same, however.”

Julian smiled at the insult. “That was Quark’s idea.”

There was a micro expression—disgust? Garak immediately set to glancing around as if searching for the Ferengi in question.

“I didn’t tell him about us,” Julian hastily added. “I think he figured it out himself. Will you sit? I’m trying very hard to seduce you here.”

Garak lowered his eyes and gave him a sly smile. “And you look positively enchanting.”

Julian relaxed, leaning into Garak’s flattery. The candles were casting playful shadows across his ridges. “I hope you like it,” Julian said.

“A romantic spread in Earth custom.” Garak’s eyes darted between the candles and Julian’s body.

“Exactly.” Once Garak wandered in range, Julian caught his wrist and tugged him down into the pillows beside him. Garak settled down with a half-hearted complaint about his knees and listened politely as Julian described the dishes arrayed before them on the low table.

Garak already appeared familiar with the Ailis paté, which he sampled immediately with a chunk of bread. TheDarvotfritters were deemed excellent, if oily, while Garak pushed theBulariancanapé to Julian’s side of the table, saying something about his caloric intake. As they ate, Garak spun a tale about working as a waiter on a pleasure ship in Tholian space. “We had an expansive menu,” Garak said, “and many visiting dignitaries to please.” Julian nestled against him, not believing a word, and loving every second of it. 

Feeling bold, Julian lowered his lashes and plucked a dolma from where they’d been stacked. “And this?”

“That, I don’t recognize.”

“It’s a grape leaf stuffed with rice, from Earth. When I was a boy—” 

Garak leaned forward and snapped the dolma in half between sharp teeth, coming within millimeters of taking Julian’s fingertips along with it. Julian lost his train of thought, watching Garak chew. He was about to eat the other half when Garak caught it in his mouth, tongue brushing Julian’s fingers.

Garak continued sucking on Julian’s fingers even after he’d swallowed the morsel. When he pulled away, Julian was half-hard. “Does it, ah, meet with your approval?”

“My dear, I’d eat anything if it was offered from your fingers.”

Julian’s breath caught. “What about a live grub worm?”

Garak pushed him down into the pillows. Julian fell back, sighing as their tongues met in a deep kiss. Garak tasted ofgrape leaf, spices, and olive oil.

They tugged and rocked against each other. Julian fought for breath. He would _not_ let himself be distracted. They were going to discuss their relationship, figure out where this was going. But Garak’s tongue was possessive, held a persuasiveness of its own.

Then they were dipping slices of Bajoranmobafruit into the pot ofDelavianchocolate fondue. Julian immediately regretted suggesting they feed each other; Garak deliberately missed Julian’s mouth, leaving him no choice but to lick away the mess. The wet, sloppy kisses that resulted made Julian dizzy.

 _After this,_ Julian thought. _I just have to wait for the right time._

A blink later, he found himself naked on his bed, flat on his back, wrists and ankles bound with cotton rope and tied to the bedposts, and all coherent thought evaporated.

Garak was tracing lines over Julian’s skin with his tongue, following an invisible roadmap. Tracing where the ridges would be had Julian been Cardassian. The tip of that tongue lavished special attention to Julian’shipbone,but refused to travel further south.

“Garak,” Julian breathed.

In the candlelight, he caught a flash of Garak’s bared teeth. “Oh, my pretty Jules.”

Even in Garak’s sultry lilt, the nickname made him queasy with anger. “I hate it when you call me that!”

“I will call you whatever I wish. Is that understood? Or should I silence that mouth of yours?”

Despite himself, Julian squirmed in his bindings, arching. “You could silence me with your cock.”

“I should think not. That’s a gift bestowed upon only the worthy. And thus far you’ve proven yourself to be nothing but insolent.”

Julian whimpered as Garak drew away, leaving him bereft. “And will you make me worthy?”

Garak tightened the bonds and took a candle from the nightstand. He studied it, tipping it back and forth. “How do you feel about fire, Doctor?” he asked, expression a mask of boredom.

Julian heard himself stutter as Garak dipped the candle over Julian’s belly, dripping hot wax onto his skin. _“Ow!”_

A hint of a smile crossed Garak’s lips. He brought the candle to Julian’s nipples. The flame threatened to lick the sensitive flesh. More wax fell and Julian’s breath hitched. He tried to squirm away, but the rope held him in place.

“It might be easier if you closed your eyes, _a’latli_.”

Nodding, Julian shut his eyes and reveled in the sensations of the flame roving over him. He kept his breathing smooth and tried not to hiss with every drop of wax. Instead he focused on the presence of Garak above him, of steady, experienced hands keeping him safe. Garak hummed in approval and moved the flame to caress the center of Julian’s chest.

There was a sizzling, followed by the stink of singed hair. Julian wrinkled his nose.  

Then the flame was at his inner thigh, circling over the same patch of skin, threatening to burn him. Julian swallowed, feeling his cock twitch and harden further. It was like he was glowing from the inside, becoming the flame himself. He panted his way through the pain as more wax trickled down.

The flame moved on, settling over his belly. It sought every sensitive spot and hovered until he was panting, every nerve ending sensitive. The wax pooled and hardened.

With a gust of breath, Garak blew out the candle and set it aside. 

Julian writhed. “Sir . . . ”

Garak withdrew a switchblade and popped the knife. “I’m not finished.”

It was a tone that brooked no argument. Julian stared at the blade, heart pounding as he wondered what Garak was planning. He was naked, wearing no clothes to slice off. Perhaps Garak intended to cut through the ropes?

“Lie still.”

Julian kept his mouth shut and nodded. The bed dipped as Garak climbed up and met Julian’s eyes. Then he ran the knife across Julian’s skin, scraping off the cooled wax. As the blade slid across his left nipple, Julian exhaled slowly.

 _I can’t believe I’m letting him do this._ It wasn’t the first time that thought had crossed his mind. Spy, torturer—Garak could mutilate him without any effort. Even a minor slip-up could leave him seriously injured. But he remained still, eyes closed, following the sensation of the cold blade sliding over him. He didn’t look down. As long as he obeyed and didn’t move, he was safe.

The blade was at his inner thigh now, tracing the line of his femoral artery. “Good, Jules,” Garak purred, pressing a kiss to a patch of skin he’d just scraped free of wax. 

Julian smiled. “I’m happy to please you, sir.” His voice sounded foreign in his ears, but he knew he meant every word.

The edge of the blade scraped over his stomach. He marveled at the skill it must’ve required, slicing away the wax without taking a layer or two of epidermis along with it. 

There was a rustle of fabric, and Garak groaned softly. Julian lifted his head, but Garak was out of his visual range. Then the bed dipped again and Garak was upon him, straddling Julian’s face between his legs. Before he could register what was happening, Garak had stretched out and taken Julian’s cock into his mouth.

Julian gasped and thrust, eyeing Garak’s tempting erection as it dangled above his chin. Hands tied, he angled his neck to reach but couldn’t manage more than a lick. “Garak, sir,” he panted, “I can’t—”

Not releasing his grip on Julian’s cock, Garak shifted backward, bringing his own cock into alignment with Julian’s mouth. Much better. Now he could try out those techniques he’d read about.

Julian licked and sucked at the head, taking his time, trying to not focus on the amazing things Garak was doing to him. This was a favorite position and he groaned in contentment as he sucked Garak’s cock into his mouth and began tonguing the ridges he could reach, intermittently biting down around the crown.

Garak stilled, the hand at the base of Julian’s cock stopping its pumping movements. Julian didn’t mind—when he dragged his teeth back and forth along the soft scales, the moan Garak made around his cock was an exquisite hum that sent an electric jolt down his spine.

Julian was practicing flicking his tongue when Garak pulled away to slip thecockringover him. Then two lubricated fingers entered him. Julian gagged as the fingers began to slowly fuck and stretch him. It was tight, with his legs tied together like this. He wanted to roll onto his stomach and fully present himself for Garak’s ministrations.

He’d barely caught his breath when Garak turned around and kissed him.

Julian could taste himself on Garak’s lips. He whimpered, leaning into the kiss as much as the restraints would allow. Garak’s hand pumped his cock, his wicked smile ordering him not to dare come until permitted. “Do you want me?” Garak whispered into his ear.

Garak’s hot breath on his neck made Julian shiver. He nodded vigorously. 

Then Garak was shifting lower, lower, deft fingers untying the ropes at his ankles. Freed, Julian spread his legs, but Garak grabbed them, kneeling between and throwing them over his shoulders.

Julian groaned loudly as Garak’s cock pushed into him. “My hands,” he said.

“What about them?”

“Want to touch you.”

A faint laugh. “More like touch yourself, I should think. No, dear doctor, I much prefer those hands where I can see them.”

Julian huffed infrustration but seized upon a new distraction as Garak began to thrust. It was gentle at first, an easy tempo that made Julian’s cheap Starfleet issue mattress creak with each pump of Garak’s hips. He swore he could feel every ridge of Garak’s cock inside him, friction building as he sped up. “Oh, god,” he whispered, “fuck me.” 

Turning his head, Garak licked at the sweat dampening Julian’s right calf. It was unnerving; Julian always considered perspiration a natural but rather embarrassing fact of human life. Garak very obviously found the scent and taste erotic. Perhaps, as an exotherm, sweating was exotic. 

Garak’s thrusting was frantic now, the expression on his face distant as he lost himself. Julian heard himself keening as the pressure built inside him, threatening to spill over. He tried to catch Garak’s eye, ask for permission to come, but Garak was growling low in his chest, eyes closed. Two more thrusts and he stiffened. Julian felt Garak’s cock pulse, filling him with hot semen.

Garak licked his lips and withdrew. “I think I’ll have a shower.”

Julian opened his mouth as Garak untied his wrists. _What about me?_ Julian knew better than to ask. They were playing another game, and his arousal was being deliberately ignored. That fact was underlined when Garak grabbed a fistful of his hair and dragged him to the bathroom.

It didn’t take much for Julian to figure out what was expected of him. Garak was feigning laziness at the most basic tasks, so Julian started by carefully unfastening his shirt and remaining clothes, folding them neatly. “If you throw those on the floor,” Garak started, voice creeping with menace.

“I would _never_ ,” Julian said.

Garak naked was a thing to behold. Julian tried hard not to stare, instead focusing on getting the water hot enough to suit a Cardassian. He wasn’t surprised that Garak’s sudden-onset laziness carried over into being incapable of washing himself. Julian hardly minded. He replicated a shampoo and soap specially formulated for Cardassian scales and feather-like hair and set to work, crouching in the tub and letting water spray him in the face. His plan was to move from bottom to top, working the soap into a sudsy lather.

Julian admired the pattern of scales, how the larger ones covered the larger muscle groups of Garak’s legs. The smaller scales were so fine they were difficult to see, each one a slightly different color, and felt as soft as silk. He squirmed to keep from touching himself or licking at the exposed scales.

Garak hissed suddenly. Julian realized in horror that he’d torn a scale with a fingernail. “Sorry!” he shouted, wincing at the trickle of blood.

“Gently, please,” Garak said. “Circular motions. This is the third time in our short relationship that you’ve made me bleed, _Doctor_.”

“Sorry, sorry. I never bathed a Cardassian before.”

Garak widened his eyes. “To my great detriment.”

Laughing, Julian cast the poor scale one last apologetic glance and moved up to Garak’s hips. Unsure how Garak would react to having his buttocks groped, Julian gave it perfunctory attention, though he did marvel at how the ridged, armored scales along the spine jutted from neck to tailbone, getting lost in the cleft of Garak’s bum. An area in need for further study. Later.

Julian brought his soaped fingers to Garak’s pubic region. Garak hadn’t yet retracted his penis, and Julian decided to take that as a show of trust. Unlike a human cock, which simply shriveled, Garak’s resembled a deflated balloon: still quite fleshy, but flatter than when fully engorged. Julian took it in his hands, gently lathering the leathery skin. It felt a tad illicit, holding Garak’s most vulnerable part like this. He circled his fingers, rubbing around the slit where his cock emerged. Garak flinched.

“Sensitive?” Julian said.

“Very.” 

Julian splashed a handful of water over the area and leaned in to tongue the slit. Even with the soap, it smelled strongly of Garak, and he could feel the powerful muscles underneath swell and move. Garak’s cock began to harden and lift and Julian wasted no time falling upon it. He sucked hard, jerking Garak off with his right hand. His left hand reached between his legs and stroked his own cock.

“Naughty, Jules,” Garak said, fisting Julian’s hair. “No touching yourself.”

Julian pouted up at him. “But—”

“Any more whining, and you won’t be coming at all tonight.”

“But I made you _dinner_ _!”_

“You _ordered_ dinner. Now, hands on me. Back to work.”

With great reluctance, Julian released his grip on his erection. His entire body ached with desperation, but he turned his desire on Garak, sucking and licking like a man starved. He could feel Garak’s semen dribbling out of him, mocking him. He let Garak’s natural lubricant coat his throat, and when Garak came, he swallowed that down as well. He slid his tongue over the head of Garak’s cock, licking the last remains of semen before it fully retracted.

Garak pulled him up. Julian luxuriated in his arms, soaping a heavily scaled stomach and chest and broad shoulders. It was agony as he resisted the urge to rub against Garak as they exchanged long, breathless kisses. The scalding water had heated Garak to the core, and he held tight.

Garak pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “Have I mentioned how beautiful you are, my dear?”

Julian buried his face in Garak’s shoulder to hide what must’ve been a goofy smile. “Once or twice.”

Garak murmured in his ear, just loud enough to be heard over the rushing water. “Dry off and wait for me in your bedroom. When I come in, I want to see you pleasuring yourself with one of my gifts. If you come without permission, I’ll have no choice but to put you in a chastity belt.”

Julian had no doubt that Garak possessed such a device. “And if I  _don’t_  come?” 

Garak’s smile was enigmatic and full of promise.

Julian jumped out of the shower, snagging a towel on his way out. He rubbed water from his hair and body as he hurried to the bed and its rumpled sheets. In what was quickly becoming a familiar routine, Julian lubed up the black dildo. He was still loose from the fucking, and it slid in easily.

_I don’t care if I look like a slut. I need this._

Rolling onto his back, bum facing the doorway, Julian tried to pace himself. Patience. All of this was about learning restraint, of holding back until Garak commanded. Each time he felt the pressure rise, he stalled, gritting his teeth, before thrusting the dildo back in again.

He kept that up for what felt like eons, slowly fucking himself while his cock strained in the leather cockring. It was like dancing on the cusp of orgasm, a glorious pain.

Warm fingers grazed the back of his thighs. Julian lifted his head to find Garak smiling down at him like a benevolent, scaly god. Fully dressed again, but that wasn’t a surprise. “I didn’t come,” Julian gasped out.

“So I see.” Garak stepped back, voice taking on its autocratic tone. “Bend over the bed. Ass in the air.”

Julian was up at once, legs spread and chest flat against the coverlet. It was a vulnerable position, but he was comfortable with that. The unexpected slap of leather falls hit him hard in the ass. He gasped and fisted the sheets as he shivered in arousal. Holy hell, that was good.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Garak dusting his ass with what he recognized as the flogger. Where’d that come from? Had the sneak hidden it in his quarters?

“Eyes forward.”

Julian obeyed. The flogger smacked his lower back and he moaned.

“I have a new task for you, Jules,” Garak drawled. Leather flicked the inside of Julian’s thighs. The falls beat his sides. “I want you to lie to me.”

Mind fogged, it took all Julian’s concentration to not fall into that seductive space of floating and happiness. “Uh, huh?”

Garak smacked him in the balls, and even  _that_  felt good. “Lie to me. And make it good, so I _believe_  it.”

“I, uh—” Julian clawed at the sheets as another whack hit him in the ass. He could barely remember his own name, and Garak wanted him to fabricate a believable lie? How did one even  _deliberately_  lie like that? “I, uhm, once, as a cadet, I, uh, cheated on an exam. Quantum physics.”

“How unimaginative.”

Julian felt a flare of annoyance. “I can’t—” Four hard smacks to the backs of Julian’s thighs. His legs trembled and his knees threatened to buckle. He swallowed, clinging to the bed. “I don’t, I don’t know what you w-want.”

“Then allow me to help.” Garak pulled out the butt plug, letting it fall to the floor.

Julian whined, then groaned as Garak grabbed his hips and thrust inside him. What was Garak on, that he was hard again so soon? Was this what a normal Cardassian male’s libido was like? Those thoughts fizzled away the moment Garak began to move.

“Please, sir,” Julian said, “oh god, let me come. I’m begging you, please. You feel too good.”

Behind him, Garak slowed. “Not yet. First, I want my lie. Tell me how skilled I am. Tell me I’ve forever ruined you to women.”

“I—wha—what if that’s the  _truth_?”

Garak’s fingers bit into his hips. “Then  _pretend_  it isn’t.”

 _Garak, you need your head examined._ But he’d call Garak the goddamn Queen of England if it meant he could come. He deserved a commendation for lasting this long. Julian thrust his hips back. “You’re the best I’ve ever had, all right? I can’t concentrate on my patients because I’m— _ugh_ —daydreaming about you fucking me. You haven’t just ruined me on women, Garak, you’ve ruined me on ever having normal sex again!”

Garak was pounding into him now, breathing hard and pushing Julian full into the bed as his legs gave out, but Julian couldn’t stop the flow of words. “You’re so good, so good, need you so bad, love you.” He hadn’t intended the last bit to slip out, but he rolled with it. “I love you, I love you. Now _will you please let me fucking come already_ _?”_

Garak grunted something inarticulate, and Julian feared he’d slipped away. Then, more coherently, “Yes, yes, now!”

The orgasm slammed into him. Julian’s scream was silent but left his throat ragged and robbed of him breath. It was a dazing thing, and for a long time he forgot where he was, exalting in nothing but his own electric pleasure. When he came down, he found himself lying face-first in his own semen, half-falling off the bed. Garak caught him and hauled him back up. Julian’s face hit a soft pillow and he sighed. He was so relaxed. So tired.

 _No, no, no!_ _I can’t sleep now. We still haven’t talked about our relationship!_

The last thing Julian remembered was Garaklaughing,and realized that he’d said that aloud.


	5. Chapter 5

The nurses had started to notice; that’s how he knew the game was truly afoot. They’d whisper amongst themselves, elbow each other whenever they thought his back was turned. He’d favor them with the smile women claimed was delightfully charming, assuring everyone in hearing range that he had no idea what they were talking about. Nobody was fooled, but that didn’t matter.

These were the kind of lies he liked: the ones where no one got hurt.

O’Brien was the first to begin guessing. Whenever they were at Quark’s or walking through the Promenade, he’d jerk his chin at every pretty young woman who caught his eye. “Is it her?”

“Wrong again, Chief.” Julian was beginning to suspect that O’Brien was simply looking for an excuse to stare at women.

During lulls in meetings, O’Brien would simply list every woman he’d seen in the past twenty-six hours, often repeating himself. “What about Penelope—” O’Brien snapped his fingers. “What was her last name? The redhead with the dimple?”

Julian scoffed. “Miles, she’s married!”

“You telling me you have principles about that kind of thing?”

“Shockingly, in fact, I do!”

O’Brien swiveled his chair toward Jadzia. “What do you think, Lieutenant? I’ve been trying to guess the identity of Julian’s new lady friend, and either he’s lying about it, or she’s really good at hiding.”

Jadzia cast Julian a knowing glance and smiled. “What about Ceralina?”

O’Brien made a face. “The  _Nausicaan_ _?_ Have you lost your mind?”

Jadzia shrugged. “By the process of elimination, we can guess that Julian’s moving past his usual comfort zone with romantic partners. Is there anything wrong with that? You should know better than to judge a book by its cover. Keiko did.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” O'Brien said. 

“Besides,” Jadzia continued, “she's very nice. For a Nausicaan.”

O’Brien gave Julian a dubious look.

Julian raised his hands. “It’s  _not_ the Nausicaan.”

“And what would you have said if they’d guessed correctly?” Garak asked that night, tracing the circumference of his teacup with a finger.

Julian drank down the last of his own tea and set the cup aside to rest his head in Garak's lap. “I don’t know. Maybe laugh it off and hope Jadzia would come to my rescue.”

“ _This_  is what I have to rely on to keep me a resident of this station.” Despite the sarcasm, Julian felt Garak’s fingers stroke his hair.

Julian relaxed into the sensations: the fullness from a perfect dinner, the aftertaste of Tarkalean tea, his head in a sturdy lap, and affectionate fingers massaging his scalp.

Garak continued, “Commander Sisko has already threatened to throw me off the station once. I hardly think it would take more—”

“What? When was did that happen?”

“Oh, did I not mention that to you?”

“It seems to have conveniently slipped your mind.”

“That’s what old age does, my dear. My memory fails.”

“Your memory is eidetic, and don’t try changing the subject.”

Garak lowered the teacup to the table to stroke Julian’s hair with both hands. “After I so generously shared that information with you about Major Kira being held by the Obsidian Order, the commander informed me that either I could help with the rescue mission, or he’d have to give in to the Bajoran ministers who desire to have me kicked from the station.”

Julian sat up. “That’s extortion!”

“I told him as much.”

“He can’t do that—it’s wrong! He forced you to violate the terms of your exile and put you, a civilian, in harm’s way to rescue one person!” When Garak opened his mouth to protest, he barreled on. “No, he might be my commander, but that doesn’t mean he has carte blanche to . . . ” Julian trailed off as Garak’s hand found his elbow.

“Your outrage on my behalf touches me, but it’s unnecessary. If anything, it relieves me to know he’d go to such lengths to protect his subordinates.” Garak tilted his head meaningfully.

Julian smiled.

“I dare say by manipulating me so easily, my respect for the man has magnified tenfold. Now,” Garak said, standing up and offering out his palm, “I think it's about time I teach you how to bend the truth to our needs.”

Julian stared at the hand. “The master is going to teach me his tricks?”

“That's the idea, yes.”

“Why?”

“Must I really explain? Your face is an open book—”

Julian groused. “So everyone repeatedly tells me.”

“If you want to continue this relationship, you'll need to learn to control your reactions. And to do that, you must overcome your moral objections to lying.”

 _This relationship,_ Julian repeated to himself. Ever since that night, he'd lost his nerve to open up the discussion. This was the first time Garak had even verbally acknowledged it. Jadzia was right; it did get harder. Now it seemed Garak himself was offering an opening. “Aren't you afraid I might start lying to you?”

Garak laughed and dipped his head with a condescending smile. “Doctor, when the day comes that you successfully lie to me, I will consider it my gift to the universe.”

 _You're going to eat those words, my dear Mister Garak._  Julian grabbed the hand and let Garak pull him to his feet and lead him to the lavatory.

For a moment, Garak seemed to contemplate their joined reflections in the mirror before stepping aside. “Show me what you know. Look into the mirror and convince the person on the other side that you're not sleeping with the tailor.”

Julian glanced at his reflection, at a loss for words. “I'm not sleeping with Garak.” He looked over and grimaced. “You can't possibly expect me to do this with you watching me!”

“Do try to take this seriously, Doctor. Maintain eye contact. No, not like that. More naturally. Yes. Lying is more than simply repeating a question in the negative. What you don't say is often what counts.”

Julian nodded, staring his reflection down. He looked a bit like a mental patient. There might be a chance he could lie to Kira and Odo, but he wasn’t so sure about Sisko and O’Brien. “Do you think you can teach me not to make an arse of myself and keep us both out of trouble?”

“The latter, yes. The former? I'm less optimistic.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Garak fed him easy lines (“we’re just friends” and “he’s charming, but I’m not interested”) and made Julian repeat them in the mirror. He’d interject to correct inflection, the curve of his lips, the rise of his eyebrows, and his posture. The tips were near overwhelming, but Julian was committed to learning. Let it become second nature, Garak advised. Hell, Julian had already been living a lie for so long—lying about his personal life couldn't be much harder.

“Garak, where does a simple tailor learn this sort of thing?”

“Oh, you'd be surprised how often we tailors must _educate_  a customer that the expensive cloth is much more slimming on the figure.”

“ _Gar_ ak!”

“I do enjoy it when you say my name like that.” Garak appeared in the mirror behind him, fingers drifting over his uniform, adjusting a collar here, picking at a stray thread there. “Keep practicing. Channel some of that arousing indignation of yours.”

“How?”

Garak’s right hand slipped under Julian’s shirt to find a nipple. “Imagine yourself ten years ago,” he murmured in Julian's ear, voice sultry. “How would a wide-eyed, nineteen-year-old Julian Bashir react to being told he’d one day beg— _plead_ —to be bound, flogged, and vigorously fucked by a Cardassian man?”

Julian shivered at the force of the word, spoken by that prim mouth. Indignation would’ve only been the tip of it, so to speak. Julian stared at his reflection, mustering up that horror and disgust as he repeated his denials over and over, trying with all his power  _not_  to pay attention to the distracting presence toying with his nipples and the hand sliding under the waistband of his pants.

He was doing rather well, if he did say so himself. That is, until Garak withdrew Julian’s erection and took it into his mouth. “This is so unfair,” Julian whined, knowing if Garak could speak he’d just say something about this being a test of his resolve. A good liar had to be able to operate under stress, after all.

 _We’ve heard you’ve been letting Garak suck your cock_ , he imagined a faceless person accusing him, wagging a finger.

Julian lifted his chin in defiance. “Garak? Garak who? Never heard of him.”

The corresponding slap on his bum sent Julian into a peal of laughter as he came into Garak’s mouth.

* * *

He'd been at his workbench, attaching a sleeve to a tunic and humming to himself, when a familiar voice came over the intercom. Gul Dukat. Garak drew his phaser at once and listened to the message. Pre-recorded. Interesting. So as Prefect, Dukat had installed a failsafe program in case rioting Bajoran workers overtook the station. He wondered what fool had triggered that particular trap. 

Not that it mattered. Outside the shop, people gathered in nervous circles along the Promenade. The air was charged. Garak shooed out his one customer from the dressing room. The man protested his rudeness, but Garak was adamant. If the station was about to go into lockdown, he did not want to be stuck here, boxed in. So he locked everything down, flipped on the _closed_  sign, and sealed the front doors. Then, rubbing warmth into his hands, Garak chatted up the woman at the jumja stand as if nothing was amiss. No need to overreact quite yet.

Then another message came from Dukat, signaling the expected lockdown. People scattered, rushing for safety and crying out in frustration as force fields blocked their path. Garak watched, calculating. The appropriate response for a simple tailor in his position would be to wait for the heroic Ops crew to resolve the situation. But Garak couldn't wait for Starfleet to stumble its way to a solution. He had plans for the evening that _didn't_ include being trapped on the Promenade with frantic Bajorans. 

Garak approached the nearest force field and accessed the panel, punching in his access code. He was mildly surprised when the field went down. Stepping through, he glanced back just as the force field reactivated. Several people waved to him, expressions imploring. Garak paid them no mind. A pity he couldn't help.

It was ironic, he thought with some bitterness as he continued on his way, bypassing one force field after another. The only place in the galaxy that still recognized his code was a Bajoran space station. The irony was so amusing, that when he finally reached Ops, he repeated the observation upon crossing the doorway.

Doctor Bashir ran up, calling his name and smiling, then stopped short. They exchanged a brief nod before Garak moved past. He was safe, then, along with Lieutenant Dax (he noted her burned hands with an inward wince), Major Kira, and a handful of other crewmembers milling about. And making little progress into rectifying the lockdown, it seemed.

It didn't take long to assess the situation and, with the threat of neurocine gas neutralized along with the life support (and the self-destruct thus initiated), construct a plan of action. On the plus side, at least those obnoxiously bright lights had dimmed. As he sat at Dax’s station, Garak poked around, searching for a solution. Perhaps he should’ve taken the easy route—used his access codes to make his way to a runabout and saved his own hide. Too late for that now. Here he was, realizing with increasing dismay that they’d likely never make it out of this without Gul Dukat.

On Dax’s clever suggestion, she and Kira moved over to a bulkhead and began disconnecting the sensors while Garak set to work rewriting his access code to match Gul Dukat’s. He became aware of Bashir standing behind him, evidently amused. “Tell me, Doctor,” he said, “what exactly is it about this situation that's making you smile?”

Julian inhaled a breath, ready to respond, then hesitated. He took a hesitant step closer. Lowering his voice so only the two of them could hear, he said, “Garak, if we don’t make it out of this—”

Garak had the sudden urge to ruffle the good doctor's hair. “No need to for last words yet,” he said, smiling. As if to prove him wrong, the terminal screen erupted with lines of code.  _Damn your paranoia, Dukat,_  he thought with a mixture of frustration and respect. No, the man was definitely not a total idiot. “Well, this is a problem.”

The next moments were a flurry of words back and forth as Garak struggled to keep up with the computer’s subroutines. This wouldn’t work. The computer’s monotonous voice cut through, informing them of just that. He heard a phaser blast, saw sparks, and ducked down as he spotted Bashir rolling for cover. Garak smelled ozone and the faint stench of burnt meat. Someone had been caught in a blast.

Whatever was firing at them, it had materialized in the replicator and wasn’t letting up. Garak shouted to be heard over the phaser blasts. “I revise my earlier statement, Doctor! You were saying?”

He heard Bashir laugh. “Should I yell my last words over to you?”

“I'm ready when you are.”

“Will you two shut up?” Kira shouted. “My phaser's on the Ops table. Can anyone get to it?”

Garak heard Bashir make an attempt for it and fail. He himself huddled down further into Dax’s station, preparing to wait this out. It wasn’t as if he had a choice in the matter. The blasts were coming too quickly, too randomly. He wasn’t nearly fast enough to make a run for it.

Gul Dukat’s voice cut through the noise. It took Garak a second to realize that it wasn’t coming from the monitors, but from the man himself. A sensation passed over him, like thousands of insects crawling over his scales. 

“Let me guess,” Dukat said, “someone tried to duplicate my access code, hm?”

* * *

Julian had known Garak and Gul Dukat weren’t friends. There was some unpleasant history there. What he didn’t expect was the intensity at which they suddenly went for each other, eyes locked, needling away at sore spots like they were falling back into a routine. He’d witnessed firsthand the Cardassian ritual of flirting through argumentative sparring—

—and that was definitely not the case here. The two of them might not have been swinging punches like a pair of Klingons, but it was just as nasty. For his part, Garak seemed much more calm than Dukat, but already Julian was getting agitated on his behalf. He badly wanted to intervene, but he was stuck huddled under the table.

Kira did it for him. “Maybe you two should settle this at another time!”

“You’re right, major,” Dukat said. “But believe me, Garak, that time is coming.”

From underneath his shelter, Julian shot Dukat a dirty look. It went unnoticed as Dukat turned his attention to Major Kira. After dithering about like a total arsehole, Dukat finally deactivated the replicator, allowing the rest of them to cautiously rise to their feet. When Dukat and Kira disappeared into Commander Sisko’s office, Julian immediately snapped open his tricorder and located the remains of the vaporized crewman. A Bajoran came to his side to put a name to the dead. He made a log of it and rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. There’d be countless more casualties if Gul Dukat didn’t agree to abort the self-destruct sequence.

“Do you think Gul Dukat will cooperate?” he asked no one in particular.

“He couldn’t have come all this way just to gloat,” Jadzia said.

“You give him far too much credit, Lieutenant,” Garak said, “but you’re right. He won’t allow the station to be destroyed.”

When Garak didn’t elaborate further, Julian joined him at Jadzia's station. He couldn’t help but indulge his curiosity. “What happened between you two? You were arguing about his father. Did he commit some kind of crime?”

“The most grievous kind. I can’t fault Dukat for holding a grudge all these years, misguided as it is—the trial ruined his family’s good name and held back his military career. He’s hardly the first scion to seek revenge against me.”

Now this was going somewhere. Julian goaded Garak on with his eyes. “Was it treason?”

“A variety therein. I shudder remembering the way he used to wear his pants so short that they exposed sock whenever he walked. A man of his upbringing should've known better.”

In his periphery, he saw Jadzia roll her eyes. Julian sighed. Of course he shouldn't have expected an answer. “Then what's your angle in this? You hate him because he hates you?”

“What gives you the impression that I hate him?”

It was a fair point, Julian allowed. Gul Dukat was a difficult man to like, as Commander Sisko could attest. Julian was lucky enough to deal with him only briefly in the past three years. Maybe Garak simply relished the opportunity to snipe at another Cardassian.

Dukat and Kira strode back in, Dukat claiming he was about to beam out and return in twenty-five minutes. Julian felt a twinge of annoyance at yet another delay. Was he trying to get the rest of them killed in the most roundabout way possible?

That annoyance turned to shadenfreude as the link failed to energize. A moment later, the monitors erupted to life again, now with the face of Legate Kell. As the new recording began to chide Gul Dukat for abandoning his post, Julian covered his eyes. So much for the heroic rescue.

Once it became clear that they were now completely locked in Ops, with no hope of using Dukat's access codes to abort the self-destruct, the bickering resumed in full force. 'Hate' might’ve not been the right word to describe Garak’s feelings, but it was obvious he reveled in Dukat’s embarrassment. Gathered around the Ops table, everyone went back and forth, swapping ideas about how to deactivate the force fields.

Then Garak was accusing Dukat of not just trying to impress Kira but of _hitting on_ her. If they were sitting at a dinner table, this would be the time Julian kicked Garak in the shins. _You’re being snotty._

To his surprise, Garak’s comment seemed to hit a nerve with Dukat. “I should’ve had you executed years ago.”

“You tried, remember?” said Garak.

“Garak,” Julian interrupted, “this isn’t helping.”

Of course, Garak would know that, but he still relented, to Julian’s relief. They got back on track, Jadzia coming to the rescue with a plan to shortcircuit the station’s power grid and take down the force fields along with it. That left her and Dukat working down in the pit, leaving the rest of them to watch from the sidelines, growing more and more agitated as the seconds ticked down.

Garak took a seat at one of the stations. “Doctor, could you hand me that PADD to your left?”

Julian jumped to action with a chipper “yessir!” It wasn’t until he caught Kira’s frown that he realized what he’d just said. Self-inflicted public humiliation coming in 3 . . . 2 . . .

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you,” Garak said, not missing a beat. As Julian handed him the PADD, Garak’s sidelong expression was one of mild chiding.

Julian tried to inject apology into the answering bow of his head.

Garak shook his head, a distant smile on his lips as he looked the tablet over.

Five minutes later, Dukat called down from the pit. “All right. I’m ready.”

“Brace yourselves,” Jadzia said.

Julian grabbed hold of the nearest console. The station rocked, lights flickering overhead. Every piece of electronic equipment seemed to send up a flare of sparks. The moment the force field around the door fell, Kira was keying her combadge and briefing Sisko, instructing him to disable the main reactor core before it could explode.

“Begin evacuating the station,” heheadSisko say. “Get as many people to the _Defiant_ and the runabouts as you can.”

Julian was already making his way toward the door. “C’mon, Garak.”

To his exasperation, Garak ambled along at the rear while Kira, Dax, and the two remaining crewmen took the lead, hustling to where the _Defiant_ was docked. That left him in the middle of the line with Dukat, watching Garak lag farther and farther behind. _Whatever insane thing you’re about to do, don’t even—_

Dukat slowed his long strides until he fell behind to keep pace with Garak. Julian heard him whisper, “Garak, Doctor Bashir is _glaring_ at me.”

 _Oops._ Julian blinked and kept his face focused straight ahead, pretending not to overhear.

“Oh?” Garak whispered back. “And why would that be?”

“You tell me! This entire time, he’s been glaring at me like he wants to rip out my throat! Could he _still_ be upset over that unpleasant misunderstanding with the Cardassian war orphans on Bajor? What happened then was so long ago. He must understand I’m a different man now.”

 _I bet,_ Julian thought.

Dukat continued, “No, I think I have it. Perhaps it has nothing to do with me at all. He’s protective of _you_. He’s gotten the mistaken impression that you and I are enemies, and he doesn’t like me insulting his, what?” Dukat lowered his voice even further. “His _lover._ Garak, you old cad, did you seduce that poor human?”

Julian almost tripped over his own legs. He caught himself.

“Really, Dukat, I take back everything I said about you lacking imagination. Even if I were interested in humans, what could the good doctor possibly seeinme?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Not all of us are as open-minded about interspecies sexual relations as you are.” Julian wished he could see Dukat’s reaction to that. “Is this because of what I said about Major Kira?”

“Don't try to—”

“Oh, Dukat, you’re much too transparent. I think the humans have a term for this: projection. As they like to say, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

“And what’s a cigar?”

Before Garak could reply, Julian had slowed down to meet them, smiling pleasantly. “They’re tightly-rolled bundles of tobacco, about this long, that are held in the mouth and smoked.”

Both Cardassians halted, wide-eyed and obviously surprised they’d been overheard. Surprised but not suspicious, thankfully. He was counting on them simply assuming they’d misjudged the superior hearing of humans.

Julian stopped as well. “A very unhealthy practice, smoking. It was very popular in the 20th century of Earth’s history. The phrase ‘sometimes a cigar is just a cigar’ was believed to be a quote from the prominent psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud, who was fond of analyzing dreams, looking for symbols in even the most common objects. He was also fond of smoking cigars, which were phallic in shape and thus—”

“Thank you, Doctor Bashir,” Dukat cut in, still looking stunned. “I think I get the idea.”

Julian followed along as they began walking again, the transport pad in sight. “I couldn’t help but overhear—I wanted to clarify that Mister Garak and I are _not_ an item, nor have we ever been. It’s not anything against Garak, of course. He’s a good friend.”

“I’m relieved we’ve settled that,” Dukat said, voice clipped, and hurried past.

“And you shouldn’t sell yourself short, Garak,” Julian continued, with a mischievous wink, loud enough for Dukat to overhear. “I’m sure there’s someone on this station for you.”

Garak raised an eyeridge. “How kind of you to say so, Doctor.”

Julian was feeling proud of his handling of the situation. Once again, he’d outsmarted one of Dukat’s ploys. The slimebag would be off the trail and leave Garak alone now. That should teach him to mind his own business. 

It wasn’t too long after they’d boarded the _Defiant_ that they got the all clear from Sisko that the station was safe for their return. He couldn’t help but feel he’d narrowly averted two disasters in one day.

They were disembarking the _Defiant_ when a large hand caught his arm. “Doctor Bashir,” Dukat said. “A moment, if you please?”

Julian glanced around, trying not to look frantic. Garak was gone, and no one else in the crowd was familiar. A few people shot them a brief look as they gave Dukat a wide berth. “Uh, of course,” he said.

“Marvelous!” Dukat released his arm. “I want to apologize for my behavior earlier. I don’t know how much you heard of our conversation—”

“Bits and pieces.”

“You _must_ believe I only have your best interests at heart. I’ve known Garak for over twenty years, and the man is not to be trusted. He wasn’t exiled for _nothing_ , after all. He’d sell his own father to the Ferengi. If he had one.”

“Gul Dukat—”

“I know, you’ve heard this before, but I implore you to listen. Don’t learn the hard way. He may seem harmless, but men like him prey on the innocent and inexperienced. As the most junior member of Sisko’s team, that makes you an irresistible target.” Dukat narrowed his eyes and cocked his head thoughtfully. “How knowledgeable are you of the Cardassian sense of smell, Doctor?”

The sudden change in subject caught Julian off-guard. “Not very, I’m afraid. There is still a great deal we don’t know about Cardassian physiology.”

“I thought so. As I’ve already demonstrated, Cardassian hearing is poor, but our olfactory senses—” Dukat tapped the side of his nose. “Those are far keener than most species. Now, how do I phrase this delicately?” He leaned forward, looming, one hand pressed to Julian’s chest and his mouth at his ear. “I can smell him all over you.”

Julian drew back.

“You put on quite the performance back there, Doctor,” Dukat continued. “But you might've oversold your point. That's when I wondered what my other senses might say. And those don't lie. It’s not just the scattered scent of a handshake, mind you,” Dukat added, closing the distance again. “He’s all over you. I dare say it’s so repugnant, it’s actually difficult to stand this close to you.”

_No, that can’t be true. Garak would’ve warned me._

Dukat drew himself up. “You shouldn’t worry, though. I’m sure with a good, hot bath, plenty of soap, and a change of uniform, you can rid yourself of the stink. I just thought I should inform you, in case you should encounter other Cardassians in the future. You see, taking the submissive role in sexual relations between two males is still considered deviant in some backwards circles of our society.”

Julian swallowed, struggling for words. None came.

“I do hope I haven’t offended you, Doctor.” Dukat smiled and bowed his head as he moved past. “Good day.”

And he was gone. Julian stood there, shaking, not knowing why. The skin of his chest where Dukat had touched him itched and burned. The trembling worsened the more he replayed Dukat’s words, over and over. He ran to the _Defiant’s_ nearest lavatory and doubled over the toilet, retching until tears streamed down his face.

* * *

Garak heard the familiar footsteps as they approached the door; his quarters were silent, making Bashir’s loud, clumsy steps thunderous. He’d told the doctor to never come by unless requested, but naturally the human had chosen to ignore him. _Willful brat,_ he thought with a smile. 

When the chime sounded, he was already at the door. He released the locking mechanism, letting it open. “Doctor—”

Bashir looked back at him, face torn into shreds of different emotions. Garak caught another expression, one that signaled an imminent explosion of some sort. A slap, or a shouted curse, perhaps.

Garak braced himself for it. When it didn’t come, he caught Bashir’s arm and reeled him inside. “Sit down.”

Bashir wandered over and lowered himself to the sofa. “You lied to me.”

 _You’ll have to be more specific than that,_ Garak thought as he pried off a panel in the wall and disconnected the circuits operating Odo’s monitors.

Crossing the room, he opened the hutch where he kept the kanar. He selected the vintage that was so dreadful its only use was getting deliriously drunk. Bashir wouldn’t be able to tell the difference in quality. He poured. “Which lie is it that’s troubling you?”

Bashir scrubbed at his face. His eyes were red-rimmed.

Garak pushed the tumbler into Bashir’s hands. “Drink.”

He took a gulp, choked and coughed. “Garak, this is awful.”

“I know. _Drink_.”

Bashir downed the rest with a wince and set the glass down. He made a small whine as Garak poured again. When Garak sat beside him, the doctor seemed to relax slightly. “You didn’t tell me . . . ” He stopped and shook his head.

A lie of omission, then? There were plenty of those. Despite appearances, however, Garak sensed that he had little to do with this. All signs pointed to Dukat having a hand in Bashir’s current state. He’d left the station hours ago, directly after Sisko’s debriefing. From what Garak could tell, the briefing had been routine.

He waited for Bashir to compose himself.

“You didn’t tell me,” Bashir said, casting him an accusatory glance, “that Cardassians could smell each other.”

Garak laughed. “Go on, please.”

Bashir was frowning at him. “Dukat said he could smell you on me.”

“Is that so. By chance, did he also mention how we can scale walls and change color to blend into our surroundings?”

“You mean, you—that was all—”

“I believe the term you're looking for is _bollocks_. Do you really think I’d neglect anything, much less something so glaring?”

Bashir suddenly blanched and covered his face. “Oh, god, he was fishing for a reaction wasn’t he? And I fell for it like an idiot. He even asked if I knew anything about the Cardassian sense of smell, and I was so intimidated I didn’t _think_ . . . ”

Garak reconfigured his expression to one of sympathy. Inside, he was raging. At himself, at Dukat. He should’ve known that overgrown glinn wouldn’t let it go, that he’d come after the doctor at the first opportunity to get him alone. He should’ve easily predicted Dukat’s ploy and been there to stop it. Bashir was the last person who deserved to be on the receiving end of Dukat’s blustering.

“Doctor.” Garak reached out to Bashir, wiping a tear that threatened to fall. “What else did he say?”

“Nothing, really. It’s stupid. He skeeved me out and I overreacted like a fool.”

“My dear, lovely doctor, you _aren’t_ to blame here.”

“I’m sorry, but I obviously am! I’m the reason why Dukat knows. I’m the reason Jadzia and Quark know.” Bashir threw himself back into the cushions, hiding his eyes under an arm. “I’m sorry, Garak. I know you’re angry at me, and you have every right to be.” 

Garak slid his hand over Bashir’s thigh. “This is far from a disaster. Dukat’s held far worse information over my head before, and I’m still standing. And I would never let any harm come to you.” 

“To me?” Bashir raised the arm to peek underneath. “What do you think he’ll do?”

“Nothing, for now.”

Dukat might think himself clever, but eventually he’d realize that this wasn’t the leverage he was hoping for. Garak knew the location of his wife and son, as well as the identities of his numerous mistresses (no matter how often Dukat might shuffle them around). It would be a disastrous misstep for Dukat to risk his own career simply to pester a disgraced former agent of the Obsidian Order.

And if he decided to act anyway, it didn’t matter. Garak had always intended to destroy Dukat. The question of _when_ was never important.

“What if he tells Sisko?” Bashir asked.

It wasn’t Dukat’s style, but Garak opted to assuage the fear. “Without evidence, the commander would never take his word over yours.”

Bashir nodded slowly. “So unless he finds said proof, he’ll wait for an opportunity to present itself. Great.” The kanar was taking effect, Garak noted. The doctor groaned and bit into one of the sofa cushions. “Ugh, my tongue feels like it’s coated in fuzz. What are we going to do, Garak?”

“I was hoping you’d ask that.”

“Mm.” Bashir caught each of Garak’s wrists, pulling them over his shoulders to turn Garak into an ill-fitting cape. “Let me guess. You have a plan.”

Garak repositioned his legs so he had Bashir in a loose headlock instead. He rubbed their cheeks together. “Good guess.”

“I’m also going to guess that it doesn’t involve telling everyone the truth.”

“Quite the opposite.”

Bashir sighed heavily. “What could possibly be more secret than what we have now?”

Garak drew away to look Bashir in the eyes. He forced his expression into one of solemnity, as if consoling a companion over the death of a beloved friend. Or talking a companion into killing a beloved friend. He intended to destroy something just as precious to both of them.

Bashir’s face fell. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m afraid I am, my dear.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

Itwas pastthe lunchtime bustle when Odo heard whispers of the argument. Stray conversations came to him in fragments, telling pieces of the story.

“Did you see?” asked one voice.

“It was surreal,” answered another. “I thought it might come to blows.”

A woman stood at a stall, shaking her head as she wrapped an earring. “It’s so unlike them,” she insisted. “They’re so composed. So _friendly._ ”

“That honeymoon was bound to end,” said her customer.

“Not that way.”

Odo put little stock in this loose talk, but when there was a possibility of a fight breaking out on the station, it became his duty to investigate. Was it too much to ask for people to behave in a civilized manner?

With the way gossip traveled, it didn’t take long to narrow down the _whos_ , the _wheres_ , and the _whys_ of the confrontation. He was patrolling the main thoroughfare when he passed a pair of Bajoran men engaged in idle chatter. “He should’ve just punched the Cardie in the face,” the taller one said.

“That’d be what I’d do,” agreed the other. “Put him in his place. Sass-mouthed asshole.”

Odo stopped and turned. It could’ve been a coincidence, but it fit with what he’d been hearing thus far. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Odo started. “Did either of you witness the altercation?”

The tall one frowned. “I did. I wasn’t near their table, but they were loud enough I wouldn’t doubt half the Promenade heard it.”

“I’d appreciate any information you could offer.”

The man went into a cursory and roundabout description of the events, seemingly puzzled about why he was being questioned about a simple argument. Mister Garak and Doctor Bashir had been engaged in their usual shared lunch at the Replimat, he said, discussing someone named Faulkner (who Eddington later explained was a human author, long-dead and inconsequential to the situation), when Bashir allegedly said something offensive about Cardassian morality. From there, it had devolved into accusations of personal character, finishing off with a shouting match that ended with both men storming out.

Other witnesses corroborated the information. One mentioned that Bashir had appeared particularly upset.

It was a strange development. Those two had been sharing lunch for nearly three years, and though their discussions were often spirited, they respected each other enough to not take their different opinions personally. Odo was aware of how friendships worked, however. He surmised they’d have the issue resolved and return to the status quo within the week. 

Two days later, Odo heard that there had been another altercation, this time in the infirmary. Garak had come through under the pretense of reconciliation, but if the nurses were to be believed, he had instead badgered Bashir until the young doctor lost his temper. A hypospray may or may not have been thrown. Nobody had come to Odo to press any charges. 

“If you ask me,” Eddington said, “Garak is a fool if he’s attacking his one friend on the station.”

Odo grunted in agreement. Perhaps their relationship was fraught with more problems than differing tastes in reading material. 

It was midafternoon when Odo heard the commotion of raised voices and the mutterings of rapt onlookers. A crowd had formed a semi-circle around Garak’s shop, with othersleaningfrom stalls and over railings to get a closer look. Emerging from the security office, Odo and Eddington pushed through. Odo spotted Jake and Nog in their usual spot, sharing a bag ofsnacks,and scowled. Bashir was shouting. Garak’s murmurdrippedacid in reply.

“That’s a lie and you know it!” Bashir stood in the corridor outside the shop, teeth bared. “But I guess that’s no surprise! You don’t even care!”

“That one sure knows how to make a spectacle of himself,” Eddington mumbled.

Garak was leaning against the shop door, statuesque and severe. His posture toward Bashir had always been nothing but affectionate. Now he exuded open hostility. “Doctor, you are becoming tiresome. When I said I hated you, were you looking for a hidden message? How blunt must I be? You were amusing for a time, but I’ve had enough.”

“Gentlemen,” Odo said, slipping between them. “Now just what is the meaning of this?”

“Ah, constable, just the man I wanted!” Garak turned toward him, suddenly affable. “As you can see, I have a rather belligerentpestthat needs removing.”

“Now I’m a pest?” Bashir jabbed a finger under Garak’s nose. “ _You_ were the one chasing me around and calling me names—”

“Doctor, must I remind you—”

“Shut _up_ , Garak! For once in your miserable life—”

“—calling me a sociopath—”

“—tells me a lot about your character—”

“—you’re still droning on and on about that benighted Federation notion of—”

“—don’t know how I thought this would ever work when—”

“—have known better than to—”

“—never were my friend—”

“—go back to your childish—”

“—have to make everything so hard—”

“—this experiment over and leave me—”

“Quiet! Both of you!” Odo growled to be heard over the rapid-fire shouting. “If you don’t take this inside, I’ll have you both arrested for disturbing the peace!”

They both quieted. Bashir’s eyes were watering. He rubbed at his chest with a fist, as if in pain. Garak hadn’t moved or changed expressions. They stared at each other. The Promenade had gone silent.

At last Bashir shook his head, whispering in a voice choked with emotion, “Whatever, Garak. You win.”

Garak bowed and then waved a dismissive hand. “Goodbye, Doctor.”

Eyes narrowed, Bashir retreated into the stunned crowd without a backwards glance. Odo called out, “All right, everyone, carry on. The situation is under control.” Eddington moved off to ensure that the crowd complied.

Garak was already inside the shop, standing over his workbench. “I apologize for dragging you into that silly feud, Constable.”

Odo cast him a long look. _The man is ruthless,_ he thought. Bashir had appeared broken, a young man losing a treasured friendship and unable to stop it from slipping away. Garak, meanwhile, seemed unruffled as he set back to work with casual expediency, as if the argument was a mere annoying delay. Normally, Odo would’ve appreciated that work ethic. Now it seemed obscene.

More than likely, it was a mask. He wasn’t foolish enough to judge Garak by appearance alone. Odo had a keen eye for reading people, but ever since they’d first met, he’d always struggled to get a bead on this particular Cardassian.

It wasn’t worth trying.

“Be sure it doesn’t happen again,” Odo said. Turning on his heel, he left.

* * *

The looks people gave him were the worst. Bashir could handle the sympathy; it was the approval that made his stomach churn with bitterness. Kira had been the first to smile and pat his arm as she passed, stopping just shy of offering congratulations. “It’s all for the best,” she said. “Believe me, there’s nothing to be gained in befriending Cardassians. You did the right thing. The _smart_ thing. Even if it did take you three years to figure it out.”

What could he possibly say to that?

That evening, when Bashir sat down to dinner with O’Brien and Keiko, the chief lifted his root beer in a salute. “I heard the good news. A bloody tosser, that Garak is.”

“Miles!” Keiko said.

“What? Because I said _tosser?_ I could’ve said a lot worse when it comes to the Cardie bastard.”

“Not _that._ Look at Julian. Can’t you tell that he’s hurting?”

“I don’t see why. We all said that weird friendship was doomed for failure.”

“I never did!”

“And now I get to say I told you so, don’t I?” O’Brien frowned as he turned back to Bashir. “You’re not actually broken up about it, are you?”’

“I’m—” Bashir shrugged and picked at his food. “Still processing.”

“He’s a spy. And a prick. Good riddance to him, I say.” O’Brien suddenly broke into a grin, oblivious to Bashir’s discomfort. “And you still have me, remember?”

And so the night had went. It took all of Bashir’s will not to shout that _this_ was the reason he and Garak couldn’t have a public relationship. This was why Garak was paranoid about anyone finding out: because no one could see past their own assumptions, no one could be trusted, and no one respected Bashir’s goddamn decisions. Instead, Bashir shoveled potatoes into his face to keep from grinding his teeth. 

He’d returned to his quarters afterward, beaten and resentful, to find Dax waiting for him outside the door. Her eyes were full of pity as they rested on him. “Not now, Jadzia,” he said, brushing past to enter his code into the door. 

She rested a hand on his arm. Not to pat empty reassurances as Kira had, but to convey her full presence. _I’ll be here when you’re ready,_ it said. She pecked him on the cheek and continued down the corridor.

Once inside his quarters, Bashir collapsed facedown onto the couch. That was it, then. In one day, he’d learned where his friends stood. Kira and O’Brien on one side, Dax on the other. Abstaining from the vote: Odo and Sisko. The worst of it was that he had no one to discuss it with. Garak was walled off, and Dax would never approve of yet another deception.

The evening Garak had told him the plan (and it was _the_ plan, not to be confused with a mere suggestion), Bashir had argued with him. Garak was adamant that keeping Bashir safe was paramount, and that such safety would only come in complete secrecy. If the two of them didn’t have a public relationship of any sort—indeed, if it was openly hostile—no one would have grounds to suspect anything else.

Garak had been sympathetic, nodding along to Bashir’s pleas that he couldn’t live like that. It’d be torture, seeing each other and not being able to talk, or even acknowledge what they had. Yet Garak didn’t budge. Persuasion no longer an option, Bashir had turned to other methods.

“Well, far be it for me, the lowly one, to challenge the all-wise Mister Garak,” he’d sneered with a mock bow. “He’s issued his edict from on high!”

 _I was so childish,_ Bashir thought, wincing at the memory. _It’s a wonder he didn’t kick me out._

Garak’s tolerant demeanor had evaporated. He’d caught Bashir’s face between both hands. “My dear, don’t mistake my willingness to hear your opinions as any indication you have a _choice_.”

It was as if a bucket of cold water had slapped him in the face. _That voice_. Garak was radiating a commanding energy, and Bashir felt his will buckling under the force of his stare. He looked away, shamed. Slowly, he dropped to his knees and hugged Garak around the legs. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for, my dear?”

“For challenging you,” Bashir said. “I’m sorry.”

Garak made a thoughtful noise. “Then tell me: do you trust me to take care of this?”

Bashir had nodded sullenly.

“Speak up, doctor.”

“Yes, sir.”

“To take care of you?”

“Completely, sir.”

A pause. “Unfortunately, you’ve failed to demonstrate that to me. Get up and bend over the desk.”

Dread had shot through Bashir as he obeyed. This wasn’t a game. None of it had been a game; it had all been leading up this moment, when Garak would test the full extent of his willingness to relinquish power. The realization terrified Bashir to the core. But he’d done as told, leaning over Garak’s desk, pulling down his pants when Garak demanded it.

“This is going to hurt,” Garak said. His voice had been flat, but the hand on the small of Bashir’s back had been a comfort.

Bashir had steeled himself for it, but the blows didn’t come. Garak was observing him, waiting. Waiting for Bashir to give him permission. Garak wasn’t going to take his obedience by force—he’d have to give it. This time it wasn’t Jules he was disciplining, but _Julian_. The significance of that wasn’t lost on him. Nodding, Bashir licked his lips. “Please, sir. I deserve it.”

When the blows did come, they were rigid, unrelenting, and _excruciating_. Bashir had howled through it but forced himself to thank Garak each time. With each strike, his voice became more and more unintelligible in his own ears.

Afterward, Garak had held the cane out under his nose. As Bashir kissed its smooth surface, he saw that it trembled in Garak’s hand. Tentatively, Bashir rose up to look Garak in the eyes. He’d expected a mask, but Garak had smiled at him with an expression of relief.

Garak had held him then, one arm wrapped around Bashir’s waist. The other took one of Bashir’s hands and interlaced their fingers. Bashir clutched onto him, rocking back and forth on his heels, soothed. Presently, Garak gave Bashir a soft pillow and pointed to a corner.

Sitting in the corner, he had long time to think. It kept him distracted from the welts covering his bum. Jadzia had explained all of this to him, had made it a warning. There was a difference between bottoming and being submissive, she’d said. One was simply a transient state, the other was about surrendering power. Without trust, she’d said with her usual centuries-worth of confidence, it was bound to end it disaster.

Bashir had glanced back, settled his eyes on where Garak was napping upright in a chair. He’d looked peaceful that way: at ease, harmless. If anyone was dumb enough to sneak up on him, Bashir was sure they’d find a knife to their throat.

 _I trust him,_ he thought. _That wasn’t a lie._

“Eyes forward,” Garak said.

Bashir had turned back to the corner. Three hours and thirty-eight minutes and counting. _I trust him,_ he thought, hugging himself, _but he doesn’t trust me._ For now, he was okay with that. Maybe his one strand of trust could hold them aloft long enough. Long enough until things between them changed. He was okay with that. He could wait.

It didn’t even hurt his feelings.

* * *

The next two evenings were spent practicing for the mission. This time, Bashir accepted instruction without challenge, offering suggestions to make the performance more believable. He was helping Garak clean up the remains of dinner when he said, “I’m afraid.”

Garak passed him a plate. “Of what?”

“I don’t know, that this is the beginning of the end, that once it’s gone, we’ll never be able to get it back. Of course, you could say that about _any_ day, but this seems like asking for it.”

“My dear doctor, you’re babbling.”

So he was. It had sounded coherent in his head. Sighing, Bashir had taken the plate from Garak and tossed it in the dissembler tray. Then he pulled Garak into a hug, smiling at how it provoked an “ah!” of surprise. 

Relaxing into his arms, Garak did that hand thing again. Bashir looked down to where their fingers were clasped and squeezed. “Humans do this, too. Does it have special significance for Cardassians?”

“A great deal.”

“Plan on letting me in on the secret?”

Garak smirked, head tilted. “I think not.”

Undeterred, Bashir found Garak’s mouth, then his tongue. Frantic kissing turned to frantic grinding, and together they stumbled to the couch, trousers down, fingers twisted in each other’s hair. Bashir sank onto Garak’s cock, rocking his hips and grabbing fistfuls of Garak’s shirt as he fought for leverage. Garak’s nails bit into his skin as he shifted, and then the room was spinning. Bashir landed onto his back, carpet burning his skin, legs splayed, Garak’s hands on the backs of his knees.  

Once spent, they lay on the floor, catching their breath. Head propped on Garak’s chest, Bashir listened to that rapid Cardassian heartbeat slowing.

“You’ll grow accustomed,” Garak had said into the darkness.

Bashir didn’t want to grow accustomed, or make due. But Garak had been right. Already he could sense the rumors dying on the lips of every resident of the station. Betting pools would be wiped clean, moving on to the next suspected couple. And for Bashir and Garak: silence.

Facedown on the couch, Bashir floundered. He gave in to the tears that had been threatening the entire long, horrible day, and wept.

It helped, to let it out. He’d been crying for ten minutes, close to hitting the bottom, when the door chimed. “What the bloody hell _now?”_ Bashir sat up and wiped at his face. When he felt composed enough, he approached the door. “Who is it?”

From the other side, Rom’s voice: “Uh, it’s me.”

Frowning, Bashir opened the door to find the Ferengi standing at attention, holding a box decorated with a blue and white floral pattern and tied with a navy ribbon.

“Hi.” Rom smiled awkwardly and held up the box. “It’s for you.”

The thing was heavy. Bashir turned it over. Of course, there was no tag or name stating who it was from—a purposeful lack of detail that told him all he needed to know. He tugged at the ribbon, letting it fall to the floor, and pried off the lid. The object inside was bronze, minutely detailed, orb-shaped, and nothing he’d ever seen before.

“What is it?” Rom asked.

“I don’t—” Bashir cleared his throat. “I don’t know.”

“Can I see?”

Bashir tilted the box toward him.

“Oh,” Rom said.

“You know what it is?”

“No. It looks really, uh, breakable. I’m glad I didn’t bump into anything on the way here!”

He was right; the object sat in a bed of white fluff and gauzy paper, keeping it safe from jostling. “Would you mind staying while I figure it out?”

“Brother would want me back at the bar, but—” Rom smiled again, exposing teeth. “I really want to know what it is!”

Bashir couldn’t help but return that infectious smile. “Me too.”

Gingerly, Bashir lifted the object from the box. Freed, four short metal legs snapped out. If it weren’t for his superhuman reflexes, he might’ve dropped it in surprise. Once he was sure it wouldn’t start walking or anything else bizarre, Bashir set it on the dining table. He and Rom leaned in, squinting.

The object was made of hundreds of small flaps and hinges of brass and bronze, each fitting like puzzle pieces with the others. The flaps in the dome were branded with black designs, each the size of his pinky nail.

“I see the Cardassian insignia over here,” Rom said.

“That must be the front, then. The legs activated when I pulled it out of the box. Maybe it’s supposed to do more.”

“I think there’s a mainspring housed down here. It’s just a guess, though.”

“You mean it’s some kind of clockwork, uh, thingamajig?” Bashir boggled at all the tiny moving parts. “Shouldn’t it have a key, then, to wind it up?”

“It might be one use. You just need to activate it. What about this pokey thing up here?” Rom pointed to a spire at the top of the dome. He touched it and shrieked, jerking away to stick his finger in his mouth. “It _bit_ me!”

Bashir was about to ask to inspect Rom’s finger when the device made an internal whirling sound. It hummed, as if thinking. Processing. Then it went silent. “I think you were on to something there, Rom.”

“I’m not touching it again! It hurt!”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to.” Bashir opened his medkit and pried out his sanitizer. He passed it over the needle several times, then readied his own finger. Rom covered his eyes. Bashir brought his finger down, and the needle jumped up to prick him.

The object made the whirling noise again. Then, bit by bit, the dome began to unfold and open like a mechanical flower. Marveling, Bashir absently popped his finger into his mouth, tasting the copper tang of blood.

When the device finally stopped moving, the black designs on the dome had come together to form Kardasi symbols. The needle had dropped down to the center. Around it circled eight Kardasi words written in the traditional form. Under each word sat a circular hole.

Rom gaped. “Wh-what now?”

“I think I’m supposed to pry out this needle—” Bashir took hold of it. It lifted from its housing easily. “And—”

The device emitted a clicking noise, like two pieces of metal tapping together, once every second.

“It’s a bomb!” Rom squealed.

Patiently, Bashir said, “I don’t think it’s a bomb.” But just to be sure, he tried to push the pin back where he’d found it.

The contraption shuddered and rattled around the table. It emitted a high-pitched, whistling howl, like a distressed animal. Rom covered his ears, shouting, “Pull it out! Pull it out!”

Bashir yanked the pin back out and relaxed as it settled back to simply clicking. “Okay, it _definitely_ didn’t like that.” Standing, he said, “I’ll translate the inscriptions. You try to figure out what this thing is.”

“Okay!” Rom hurried to Bashir’s computer and sat down.

The device continued to click. Although Bashir wasn’t sure whether it was counting down to anything, he scrolled quickly through the Kardasi dictionary. He’d already memorized several hundred logograms over the past few weeks, but that was only enough to comprehend the general tone, not necessarily divine meaning. It didn’t help that Kardasi was a highly context-driven language, and any word on its own could have half-a-dozen different meanings. By the hour mark, he’d translated five verbs and the clicking was beginning to grate on his nerves.

Rom spun in his chair. “I think I’ve got it.” He pointed to the monitor; Bashir devoted half his attention to it while he continued to focus on the sixth verb. “It’s an O-Obsidian Order p-puzzle box. I know it doesn’t look like a box, but it says here that they come in all kinds of shapes. They were a really old way of sending important messages.”

Bashir nodded. He was surprised there was even an entry on the object. It was a tad suspicious. “That sounds about right. What else?”

“Once you open it up, you gotta stick the pin in the right clue to get the message.”

“And how do I know what the right clue is? They’re just verbs, and as far as I can tell there isn’t a question or a message to give them any context.”

“I don’t know. It says all of them are different. The, uh, recipient is supposed to guess what the sender meant. Or maybe the sender guesses what the recipient would guess? You’re supposed to know.”

“And what’s stopping me from sticking the pin into each word?”

“Oh, that’s easy. It’s supposed to collapse and destroy the message if you pick the wrong thing.” Rom read on, and his eyes widened. “Some of them blow up!”

“Brilliant. What about that infernal ticking?”

“Uhm. Hum. It doesn’t say anything here about ticking sounds.”

Figured. Bashir finished the sixth verb and rubbed his eyes. “Only two more to go.”

“What do you have so far?”

Going clockwise, Bashir listed them off:

 _To obey_ , as to demonstrate loyalty

 _To lie_ , as to protect another

 _To cherish,_ as a close friend

 _To sacrifice,_ as for the greater good

 _To apologize,_ as when feeling genuine regret 

“What’s the sixth one?” Rom asked.

“It’s—” Bashir glanced away, trying not to smile. “It’s not that one. I know that much.” The sixth verb had been: _to fuck,_ as a virgin. No, certainly not an option. He privately thanked Garak for the easy break, raising his odds from one in eight to one in seven.

Unless that glaring option _was_ the answer. No. Too obvious.

The seventh made his heart flutter in his chest. _To love_ , it said, _as a mate_. The eighth had proven to be the most challenging to decipher. It had several different meanings the way it was written, but, from comparing it to the other verbs, he was able to narrow down the options with some confidence: _to justify,_ as to one’s self.

Bashir stared at the list of seven verbs, surveying his options. _I’m overthinking this. The answer is right there and I’m trying to come up with ways to make the others fit. Why? Because I don’t believe it? Because I don’t_ want _to believe it?_

Rom was watching him expectantly. “Doctor Bashir? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Rom. Fine.”

“Do you know the answer? I really want to see what it does next!”

 _So do I._ He could imagine Garak building this beautiful contraption from nothing, with him in mind. How could he ever look Garak in the eye if he destroyed it because he was too dumb to divine the correct answer? Too timid? Dammit, why couldn’t it have been a Boolean algebra, or Cardassian trivia?

Bashir sighed. Enough stalling. He had this. With a trembling hand, he picked up the pin. “Ready?”

Rom ducked behind a chair—to shield himself from any flying debris should the object explode, Bashir guessed—and nodded.

“Okay,” Bashir said, sucking in a breath. “Here goes.” Double and triple-checking his notes, he stabbed the pin in the hole marked _to love_ and stepped back.

The clicking stopped abruptly and the device sputtered as hidden gears clamped down on the pin. The top half rotated ninety degrees clockwise, ninety degrees counterclockwise, then ninety degrees back again. _It’s shaking its head at me,_ Bashir thought in dismay. The legs lowered and snapped back into their housings as the center folded up, returning to its original configuration.

There was one last snap. Gray smoke slithered from the holes in the dome, filling the room with the scent of burnt paper. Then stillness.

Rom looked up at him. “I think you picked the wrong thing.”

“I guess so,” Bashir muttered.

It was unfair. He’d thought his day could not possibly get any worse, and then _this_. Bashir wanted nothing more at that moment than to march to Garak’s quarters and sucker punch him for—for—for _everything_. But what was the point? _He’d only laugh and mock me for being so damned naive. “You know better than to trust me, my dear doctor,” he’d say. “Consider this a lesson.”_

Rom got up and that awkward smile was back. “Well, uh, thanks for letting me help. I better get back to the bar before Quark gets mad at me.”

“Right.” Bashir escorted him back to the door. “Thanks for bringing it over.”

“You’re welcome. Good night, Doctor Bashir!”

“Good night, Rom. Wait, do you think you could deliver a message to—”

From the dining table, the object began to click again. And click. And click.

They exchanged a glance.

 _You’ve got to be kidding me,_ Bashir thought as they circled around the table. _Of course he’d go to an elaborate amount of trouble just to jerk my chain. Very funny, you wanker._ It must’ve had an internal timer, counting down one minute thirty seconds before abandoning its ruse.

The clicking sped up, faster and faster until Bashir was afraid it really was about to explode. But it was building pressure; something inside snapped and the object unfolded again, hinges fragmenting and rotating around the central shaft on delicate chains to reconfigure in an ostentatious display. Daggers of bronze and brass curled upward in a bowl, forming odd angles, like a bush of spikes. No, scratch that: _thorns_.

The contraption finally came to a stop. There was a loud pop from its center as hinges snapped open. Out burst a white flower, green stem curled like a spring.

Rom hurried over to gape at the finished product. “It’s _beautiful!_ ”

Bashir blinked back tears of awe and overwhelming relief. It took him a long moment to find his voice. “It is, isn’t it?”

“But where’s the message?”

“Unfortunately, Rom,” Bashir said, smiling, “I’d rather keep that between me and the sender.”

Rom frowned in obvious bafflement. Bashir had to wink to get it to sink in. “Oh! Right!” Rom shuffled back and forth. “You better keep it a secret. I don’t want the O-Obsidian Order to get mad at you.”

Bashir laughed and held up a finger. “Could you hold on for a second?” Before Rom could answer, he ran into the bedroom and grabbed Kukalaka from his perch on a shelf. He carried the bear back. Would he fit? Bashir set him inside the blue and white box. Triumph! He had to press down Kukalaka’s ears for the lid to secure, but it was perfect. Bashir wondered if he should enclose a note, then thought better of it. Not necessary.

Retrieving the ribbon from the floor, Bashir tied a half-arsed bow around the box and handed it to Rom with some trepidation. “Could you give this to—whomever? And have them pass it along?”

Rom agreed with a wide grin and carried his new package out. Alone again, Bashir sat at the table and rested his chin in one palm. With the other hand, he ran his fingers across cold metal, dedicating every sharp edge, blackened engraving, and imperfect weld to enhanced memory. Whatever happened, there was no way to obfuscate what _this_ meant.

* * * 

Garak was halfway to his shop, box in hand, when Lieutenant Dax caught up with him, her eyes bright with suppressed anger. “Why, good evening, Lieutenant.”

Dax matched his pace. “You haven’t been in your shop for hours.”

“Ah, yes, as I told the doctor, I’ve had to curtail my hours due to the Dominion threat. Are you perhaps in the market for a new cocktail dress?”

Dax rounded on him, blocking the path forward. “Funny you should mention Julian.”

“Funny how?”

“Funny you mention him so casually after what you did to him.”

“And what, Lieutenant, do you think I did to him?”

Dax paused, perhaps picking up on his wording. “You mean in addition to treating him like garbage? You called him a Federation lapdog, for one. It doesn’t even matter what you said. What matters is that you broke his heart.”

 _I broke a few of his maudlin fantasies, perhaps._ “Is that what he told you?”

“He didn’t have to say anything.”

“Lieutenant, I’m in a hurry. Shall we continue this as we walk?” When she stepped out of the way, Garak moved past. Presently, he said, “He’s far stronger than you give him credit.”

“Maybe he can handle your _physical_ abuse—”

Now she was testing his good nature. “Madam, I would never—”

“Are you really going to pretend you didn’t manipulate him for your own amusement?”

 _Ridiculous._ He’d already received a plethora of death threats over the past few days from well-meaning and not-so-well-meaning bystanders who thought it necessary to show disapproval of their orchestrated tiff. Not since his first days on the station had they been so numerous. It hadn’t been a surprise, and Garak was prepared for it, but to frame it like Bashir was suffering alone—that Garak had sacrificed nothing, wouldn’t miss their lunches or Bashir’s little pats on his arm or the way his face lit up whenever they crossed paths—that positively _rankled_.

“Did I hit a nerve?” Dax said.

 _He’s lucky to have such friends._ Obnoxious and insinuating as they were. Garak wanted nothing more than to open the box then, as grotesque as exposing himself to a room full of strangers, and truly challenge her to argue with him over which one of them had manipulated Bashir’s feelings, who’d _really_ strung him along. That would be satisfying.

From experience, Garak knew it would ultimately backfire.

Instead he sidestepped. “If you already have your mind set on what’s transpired, you hardly need me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’ll be getting.”

Dax pressed her lips together as she recalculated, going for a different tactic. “I’m not trying to lay blame,” she said carefully. “I just want to know what happened.”

Garak smiled _._ “And _that_ is precisely the problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did it ever occur to you that it’s none of your business?”

She frowned. “Garak, Julian’s my _friend_.”

“A flimsy excuse if I ever heard one.” Garak walked faster, aware of how much time he had left. _I won’t spell this out for you, Lieutenant,_ he thought. “The prying eyes and ears on this station can be trying, don’t you agree? If I recall correctly, you yourself have been subjected to unfounded rumors on more than one occasion.”

The furrow in her brow deepened.

Garak gestured with a hand. “I’m glad to be free of it.”

Dax stopped in the middle of the Promenade. Excellent timing; they were a few yards from his shop. “Julian wasn’t _pretending_ to be in pain,” she said. 

Anyone with functioning senses would’ve seen the hurt and betrayal radiating from the doctor. It was an instance where Bashir’s inability to mask his emotions became propitious. Another item for Garak to add to his list ofnightimeself-flagellations. Garak bowed his head. “It allowed him put on a most convincing performance.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then believe me when I say that it was never my intention to deny Julian his one confidante. I haven’t sworn him to secrecy.” Garak favored her with his most charmingsmile,and turned toward his shop. “Thank you for the escort, Lieutenant.”

Once inside, Garak locked the doors and slipped into the storage room. Bolts of cloth, thread, and extra mannequins sat stacked on shelves along all four walls. He pulled aside one of the smaller shelves and felt for the false door, running his fingers over the scanner in the process. It popped open. He dragged the shelf back in place before closing the door behind him.

It was a poor practice, limiting his exits like this. But Garak had reasoned that if someonewerecommitted tokillinghim, this station already had him trapped like an animal. Several extra barriers might offer extra protection, even if it was purely psychological.

Garak scoped out possible locations. The room was small—not small enough to trigger his claustrophobia—and the lack of viewports made it suffocating. Not a place he enjoyed spending his time. Yet this was where he hid his spare valuables. In the suitcase: four worn, real books from Cardassia; the Obsidian Order blade in its velvet sheath; a metal case of poisons, identifications, and other items he’d rather Constable Odo never find; an envelope of photos and letters of varied sentimental value (which he considered burning every time he laid eyes onit,and always reconsidered); a length of purple Tholian silk; two high-quality daggers, well-sharpened; a bottle of vintage kanar he was saving for some unknownoccasion; and an assortment of isolinear rods.

He was most certainly out of time now.

Garak set thebearatop the suitcase, hidden from the access way but visible from the bed. He cast the poor, tattered thing one last lingering glance and, smiling fondly, went back to work.


	7. Chapter 7

The next two days dragged. Julian had been on his way to the Replimat one afternoon when he spotted Garak strolling in the opposite direction, coming toward him. It was like wading through molasses; each of Julian's steps felt lumbering, his limbs heavy as they drew closer. Garak met his eyes for a fleeting, heart-pounding moment. And then he looked away without a hint of recognition.

Time sped back up. The galaxy continued to spin interrupted, leaving Julian behind to comprehend his new role in it.

He was standing in line when someone tapped his shoulder. "Hey, Doctor."

Julian lifted his head. "Yes?"

It was a male Antican. “That spoonhead—”

Why did everyone suddenly think he was okay with them spouting slurs? “Garak. His name is  _Garak_ _.”_

“If you need protection from the ba—”

“Let me stop you there,” Julian said. This was the third ‘offer’ of thinly veiled revenge he’d received, and by now he could see it coming. It was an unsettling trend. The man was the first non-Bajoran to put forth the proposition, however. “If you or anyone else acts on whatever you’re planning,” he continued, “I’m going to remember this conversation. And I  _will_ take it to Security.”

That sent the man rushing off with a sudden alacrity.  _Where do these people come from?_  he wondered as he ordered his lunch and sat at a table— not _their_  table, of course. He was a damned Starfleet Officer, not some kind of ruffian! Did they really believe he needed protection, much less that of thugs, to settle his scores?

_Everyone thinks I’m hopeless. Naïve. Hopelessly naïve._

This wouldn’t be happening if Garak had simply agreed to make their relationship public. Sure, then they'd only see each other on Julian's shore leave, when he'd have to journey to whatever new government was willing to accept a Cardassian exile, but at least it’d be  _public_.

No use dwelling. It could be a lot worse than this, Julian decided, picking at his lettuce.

_I wonder if Tain knows._

Now  _that_  was an interesting thought. If Tain knew how Julian took his tea, it wouldn't surprise him if he knew how Julian took his sex. Then again, would the Obsidian Order director even care? Even in his semi-retirement, the man must've had better uses of his time. Not everyone was Skrain Dukat.

Thankfully.

* * *

When Nog arrived in the infirmary cradling his right arm, Julian pressed his lips together. “Another bad fall, eh, Nog?”

“Yes, Doctor,” he said. “But I don’t think it’s broken.”

“Well, hop on up and we’ll have a look.”

Nog scrambled onto the exam table, using his elbows, one hand still clamped around his forearm. If the arm was actually injured, Julian thought, that maneuver would’ve been quite painful. There was something dodgy going on here.

Once sitting, Nog gingerly lifted his hand, just enough for Julian to peek underneath.

It was a slip of paper, rolled tight and tied off with a thin, red bow. A formal missive if he’d ever seen one.

Nog stared at him, his expression saying, _take it!_

Julian snatched the note and tucked it into a pocket. He gave Nog’s arm a perfunctory examination. “It seems a bit bruised, but that’s all. If you want, I can—”

“Great, I feel better already!” Nog jumped off the table and grinned. “Thanks, doc!”

Once Nog had been gone for five minutes, Julian hurried into his office and unrolled the strip of paper. The poem was written in blue ink, and despite the excellent penmanship, he couldn’t make out its meaning. Five re-readings later, his best guess was that someone had translated Emerson’s poem  _Compensation_  into Klingon, then into Romulan, and then back into Standard.

 _Dammit, Garak, couldn’t just say where to meet you and at what time, could you?_  But he was grinning wide. This was going to be fun to decode.

And it was. He mentally puzzled through it for the rest of his shift, seeking out patterns and transposing words. Garak must’ve had high expectations for his capabilities, because if it weren’t for his enhanced intellect, Julian wouldn’t have been able to decipher the message in time. Tonight. Garak wanted to see him _tonight_.

 _Maybe he’s as impatient as I am,_ Julian thought. Not possible.

The location was what confused him. He’d initially suspected he’d screwed up the decoding, but references in the text made it abundantly clear: Quark’s. Surely after all the effort they’d just put into convincing everyone they hated each other, Garak didn’t expect to meet him out in the open?

Best to roll with it. When he arrived at the bar in the late evening, wearing his uniform because he wasn’t sure what to expect, Garak wasn’t in sight. Not that he was expecting that. Julian glanced around. Perhaps there’d be another clue in the bar somewhere, leading him to yet another. A sexy scavenger hunt. He could get behind that idea.

He was searching under chairs and coasters, earning bemused stares from the other patrons, when someone behind him cleared his throat. “Looking for something, doctor?” Quark asked.

Julian straightened. “Uh, no. I mean, sort of.”

“Uh huh. Maybe I can help? Please, come with me.”

Julian hesitated, then noticed Quark’s pointed stare. It was the same Nog had worn. _Shut up and follow,_  it said. So he nodded, continuing to roll along with whatever new game they were playing. It was disquieting that Quark seemed to be in on the plan, but in retrospect, so had Rom and Nog. Apparently Garak had made the Ferengi his minions—a concept that amused the hell out of him. 

Quark led him toward the bar, then behind it. “C’mon,” he said, waving impatiently when Julian hesitated again. Was this right? Surely Quark didn’t normally let patrons come this way.

“C’mon, Bashir, people are staring.”

With a mumbled "sorry," Julian followed him past a dark storage room and into a darker, danker space with nothing but a metal ladder leading up.

Quark yanked the ladder down. "After you."

"Quark, what is the meaning of this?"

"Do you want to see your boyfriend or not?"

Julian wasn't sure how he felt about the use of the word _boyfriend_. Too infantile. "Yes."

"Good, then get your ass up there."

Julian shot Quark a dirty look. Taking orders from Garak was one thing. If Quark thought he could boss him around by extension, he had another thing coming.

Quark raised his hands, palms out. “Sorry, sorry. It's just that I have customers waiting.”

Julian began to climb. After several rungs, Quark followed after. The accessway led to a darkened corridor dimly illuminated with a trail of yellow lights beneath the baseboards. Along one wall stood two black, sealed doors.

“Are these holosuites?” Julian asked once Quark had joined him.

“What else would they be?” Quark entered a code into a panel. “Sometimes my customers require extra discretion. And when they do, they come this way.”

“For an extra fee,” Julian added. When the door unlocked but didn’t open, he asked, “How long do I have?”

“Huh?”

“The holosuite. How long is it booked for us?”

Now Quark looked genuinely confused. “As long as you want, obviously.”

What about this situation was he supposed to find obvious? The part where the holosuites had a secret back entrance (surely he could’ve used that information before), or that Quark was generously doling out unlimited time to use them? “Quark,” he said, “if you’re scamming Garak—”

“It’s nothing like that!”

“Is he blackmailing you?”

“If he was, would I be dumb enough to admit it?”

“Point taken.”

Staring at the floor, Quark worried his lower lip between blue-tipped fingers. “It’s none of my business,” he said quietly, with a wave. Then louder, with obvious annoyance, “If you don’t have any more questions, I’ve got a bar to tend.”

With that, Quark rushed off in a twirl of multi-colored shirttails.

“What a weird little man,” Julian muttered and stepped through the doorway.

* * *

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t a blast of heat hitting him square in the face. Julian squinted against the sudden brightness, hand shielding his eyes from a large and angry sun overhead.

As his vision adjusted, he found himself standing on a high cliffside of red rock. Backing up a pace, Julian took in the view. Down below, nestled in the valley, lay a village alongside a thin, meandering river. It was a stunning landscape of dusky reds and oranges, despite the noticeable absence of trees.

To his left curled a stone pathway leading to a house overlooking the valley. As he followed the path and drew closer, the house resolved itself into a grand villa. Overhead, strange birds chirruped an eerie song and flew to line up along the roof.

Beside the villa’s front steps, he spotted Garak leaning back in a chair, one hand hanging off the armrest, fingers grasping the rim of a glass. “Good evening, Doctor,” he called out. “I smelled you coming a mile away.”

Julian struggled not to smile at the jibe, failed. “If this heat keeps up, I won’t doubt that,” he said, indicating the stains already forming around his armpits. “I take it this is Cardassia Prime?”

“You’re correct.” Garak gestured to the steps beside him. “Or rather a facsimile from my memory.”

Julian would have much preferred to climb into Garak’s lap, but he sat where Garak indicated, finding the steps surprisingly cool from the shade of a canopy. He unzipped his jacket and set it aside. “I just had the strangest conversation with Quark.”

Garak lifted the glass to his lips. “Oh?”

“He said we had the holosuite booked for as long as we wanted, which I find odd—he usually kicks O’Brien and me out of our programs if we go even a second over time. And we’re some of his best customers. It makes me wonder what sort of arrangement you two must have.”

“Would you believe that I agreed to give him free alterations?”

Julian wiped an arm across his forehead and smiled. “I know what you charge on alterations, Garak. It’s not enough. That leads me to conclude one of two things: either you’re blackmailing him—and if that’s the case I want it to stop—or you’re making him enough profit somehow that he can eat the cost.”

“What a suspicious mind you have!” Garak lowered his chin, eyes sparkling. “I find it incredibly arousing.”

“Not just my mind, I hope?”

Garak’s grin became borderline predatory. “You know the answer to that.”

“Am I close?”

“I couldn’t say.” Garak glanced down at his glass and swirled the liquid. “Why don’t you get back to me when you’ve narrowed down your suspicions to just one?”

“So it’s one, and not both?”

“I don’t believe I said that. It could very well be neither. I simply prefer to respond to specific accusations.” Garak stood and leaned over Julian to press a lingering kiss to his lips. “Would you rather sit out here discussing Quark, or shall we enjoy the fruits of my backdoor dealings?”

Julian returned the kiss. “I’m not forgetting about this.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

Garak's hand rested on the small of his back, guiding him into the house. It was spacious and airy, with dark wood floors, white furniture, and wide open windows. The architecture was entirely Cardassian, but the art and furnishings Julian recognized as having influences from all over the Alpha Quadrant.

“This is your house?” he asked.

“If you'd come this way—”

Julian wandered into a living area, drawn to the portraits lining the walls. He heard Garak sigh and follow behind. Julian focused on a set of paintings of a young woman, each one capturing her at different angles and settings. In one, she sat in a chair much too big for her, a tome in her lap, studying the text. In another: she was sewing with a needle and thread. Another: lying in the grass, her feet kicked up. He wasn't an expert on Cardassian aesthetics, but he knew beauty when he saw it. She had a sweet but confident look about her. “A sister of yours?”

"Doctor—"

“Garak, you built this program and invited me along for a reason, didn't you? And I'm grateful. Surely you expected me, curious human that I am, to ask questions.”

“I was raised alone,” Garak said, which was hardly an answer at all.

“Then—”

Garak glanced to the first portrait. “Yvall. My wife.”

Julian looked between Garak and the portrait, trying to divine whether he was being jerked around. Garak had that inscrutable expression on. Julian wasn't sure which part shocked him most: the  _wife_ bit, or the fact that Garak had answered him. “You never mentioned being married.”

“Oh, but you never asked.”

“You wouldn't have told me the truth if I had.” At that, Garak made a nod of acquiescence. “That, and I guess I've always thought of you as a sort of permanent bachelor.”

Garak laughed. He took a tentative step closer, as if wary the woman might come to life. “I'd only been in the Order for two years, but I was considered a rising star, a very promising young agent. Tain even allowed me to sit with his inner circle—a move that earned me a great deal of resentment, as you can imagine. Tain was a firm believer in tradition. Or, at the very least, in the tradition of keeping up appearances."

"Pragmatic," Julian said. "I see where you get it."

Garak gave him a sharp look. "What do you mean?"

"As the teacher goes, so goes the student."

Garak stared at him for a strange moment, then continued, "Yes. Of course Tain wanted his best student to put on a good show at the galas, and Yvall was of such good pedigree, considering my lowly roots.”

Julian didn’t miss the venom on the tip of Garak’s tongue. An arranged marriage, then. It made him sad. “How old were you?” he asked, not expecting an answer.

To his surprise, Garak said, “Twenty. Yvall was a few years older. We became good friends, in fact. She had the most lovely voice; she had ambitions of becoming a singer before we married, and I tried to encourage her to continue her lessons.” Garak answered his next question without prompting. “She came to her senses about me, as you eventually will.”

Julian ignored the last comment and pretended to believe the obvious lie. Divorce must’ve been highly stigmatized in Cardassian society, and he doubted even an ambitious woman would’ve backed out of a marriage arranged by the Obsidian Order. And if she  _had_  left, Garak didn’t strike him as the type to keep a wall of portraits in her honor. No, the girl was dead. He was certain of that.

Instead of drawing attention to the lie, Julian swiped his arm across his face. It wasn’t much cooler indoors as it had been on the steps.

Garak became amiable again. “You look ready to faint, my dear. Perhaps you should take off your clothes.”

“I think I’ll be okay as long as I sit down.”

“I phrased that improperly.” Garak sat on one of the couches, his arms stretched along its backrest. “Take off your clothes.”

Julian’s stomach flipped. He wasn't about to protest; it _was_ hot, after all.

“Yes, sir,” he said, blood rushing to his cock as he pulled his shirt over his head. He had to force himself to go slow, not to kick off his clothes and throw himself at Garak. Their last time together had been wild, bruising, and over much too soon. Julian wanted to savor this: the desire in Garak’s eyes as he unfastened his trousers and tugged them to just over his knees, the way Garak’s scales darkened as Julian turned around to pose, exposing his backside.

“Those again!” Garak said.

Glancing down, Julian snapped the thong’s elastic waistband. “Oh, these little things?”

“What an _apt_ word.” Garak took a breath and seemed to compose himself. “Did I tell you to stop?”

“No, sir.” With a private smile, Julian pulled off his boots. He lowered his trousers the rest of the way and stepped out of them.

When he tried to join Garak on the couch, Garak caught his wrist and tsked. “No, no. You belong on the floor. I won’t have you staining the furniture with your disgusting human sweat.”

It was a statement that begged a challenge—said furniture was holographic, and he knew Garak liked his sweat—but Julian knew better than to take the bait. He settled between Garak’s feet, hugging Garak’s right leg, face resting against the knee.

Outside, the wind was picking up, sending a warm breeze redolent of flowers howling through the open windows. The birds continued to chirrup, and the sun was starting to set behind an expanse of blue mountains.

“It’s beautiful here,” Julian said.

“I would’ve preferred to show you the real thing.”

“You still might, one day.”

“I’m afraid the deed’s no longer mine.”

“Then you’ll buy it back.”

“It’ll be horribly redecorated.”

“Then you’ll redecorate it right back.”

Garak chuckled low in his throat. “My dear, how deluded you are.”

“And you’re pessimistic," Julian shot back.

Julian felt strong fingers settle on the back of his neck and massage circles at the base of his skull.  _This place depresses him,_ Julian thought, relaxing into the touch.  _Yet he wants me to see it, is trying to show me something. What is he offering me with this?_

A fat, orange bird hopped along the dirt outside, pecking at the ground. “You didn’t finish your story,” Julian said. “What happened after Yvall left?”

Garak hummed. “Many things. I moved to Terok Nor, met you—”

 _Moved_ , like it was a choice. “I mean specifically related to your love life.”

“Doctor, I could tell you tales of murder and intrigue, and you’re interested in the banalities of my love life?”

“Get on with it, Garak.”

“Do you mean my love life, or my married life?” Before Julian could ask what the difference was, Garak had shifted his weight and plunged in. “Tain was insistent that I remarry, but I was rarely planetside long enough to make that feasible. I was reluctant to go through the process again.”

“I had no idea life inside the Obsidian Order was akin to a Jane Austen novel.” _With more assassinations, I’m sure._

“Unfortunate for me, cast as Elizabeth Bennet. I managed to hold him off for nearly ten years before I opted to take the matter into my own hands.” Julian caught amusement in Garak’s voice as he continued, “I had a contact in Central Command who’d become something of a friend. When I brought up the proposal to her, she suggested we elope in Morfan Province. They have lovely beaches.”

 _Around my age,_ Julian thought with an emotion he couldn’t place. Jealousy? No, that couldn’t be it. “You married a woman from Central Command? Tain must've been having kittens when he heard that.”

“My rebellious phase.” Garak’s hands slipped to Julian’s shoulders, massaging the muscles there. “Her lover was even _less_ thrilled. Poor girl never did warm to me.”

Julian laughed. Oh. _Oh_. “In Earth history, we called those lavender marriages.”

“How pretty.”

“Or marriages of convenience.”

“Marriages of convenience,” Garak repeated, trying out the phrase, not seeming to like its taste. “What a very human term.”

Julian twisted around. “And what do you mean by that?”

“Only that humans go to lengths to dichotomize even when it isn't necessary. Consider, Doctor: as opposed to inconvenient marriages?”

Julian huffed. “As opposed to marriages based on genuine love and affection, Garak.”

“And would you really become party to such an arrangement if it weren’t convenient?”

“Of course.”

“Of course,” Garak said, with a mocking edge.

Again, Julian didn’t take the bait. Garak was from a society that prized the collective over the individual; he wouldn’t see the romanticism in suffering for love. Suffer for Cardassia, yes, but anything else was pointless. Nonsensical. And the last thing Julian wanted now was to retrace this argument when he couldn’t handle Garak’s answers. It wouldn’t matter that Garak was an exile and by all rights severed from community and Union. Instead Julian settled back down, looking out the window. The orange bird had caught an insect between its talons. It tore off a leg and swallowed it.

When Garak realized he wasn’t in for a fight, his tone lightened. “Avoiding confrontation? I hope this won’t become a habit.”

“Not bloody likely,” Julian said, casting Garak a hint of a smile. “I’ve just had my fill of arguing for now. This past week has been draining.”

“I know, my dear.”

That would be as far as they’d ever discuss it.

* * *

They shared dinner on a balcony overlooking the valley and village below, watching as Cardassia Prime’s sun fell across the sky. The canopy above them flapped in the breeze. Julian leaned into the wind, letting it cool his bare skin. Garak had given him a tour, moving with a surety he never showed when walking through Deep Space Nine. It was home turf. Trailing behind, Julian had tried his best to ask subtle questions, and Garak rewarded him for the effort. Eventually. After fooling Julian for twenty minutes into believing that he'd sired half a dozen children, each with a detailed profession and personality, Garak finally admitted (with obvious amusement) that he had none. In addition, Julian learned that although Garak and his second wife shared a house in the capital, she never stayed here. That meant one thing:

This was Garak's bachelor pad.

“I wonder, how many naked men have you entertained up here?” Julian teased, taking a sip of wine.

Garak politely demurred, tilting his head and changing the subject to the latest Cardassian play he'd lent Julian, the segue so smooth he almost didn't notice the brushoff. They continued the conversation over tea, which Garak carried in on a tray carved from black wood. Julian sidled his chair beside Garak's, left hand curling around Garak's bicep, the muscles unconsciously flexing under his fingers.

Garak was engrossed in making his point, one finger sailing through the air to paint his passion before landing on the tip of Julian's nose. They shared a laugh and Julian took up his counterpoint, pinching Garak whenever he dared scoff.

 _It's almost the same, maybe even better this way_. He'd never dared touch Garak like this during their lunches, even if the gestures might've been construed as platonic. Was it wrong, selfish, that he wanted both? A Garak in public and private?

When Garak took his hand and led him back inside, Julian's excitement shot electricity through his body. His cock was half-hard in anticipation and fully erect against the thong once they reached the bedroom.

Like the rest of the house, the bedroom was large and airy, the bed itself draped in white covers and pillows. Again Julian recalled how none of this aligned with his expectations, besides the library of books downstairs that demonstrated an eclectic taste in reading material. He'd expected darkness, small spaces. Dangling shackles. Grotesque collections of weapons and severed fingers. Fire sconces and skeletons hanging from the walls. Not this minimalist beauty.

 _God, am I actually disappointed? Is_ _that what I want?_

Hot breath tickled his nape. "Would you prefer something more _filthy_ , my dear?"

Julian bit his lower lip. A small moan betrayed him.

Garak nibbled at his ear, hissing, "I thought so." He straightened. "Computer, load program Garak one-eight-three."

Their surroundings shifted; it was familiar, the layout of the studio apartment (see one, you've seen them all), reminding Julian of late nights studying for exams. The building was run-down, the walls cracked, and the ceiling leaking rancid water. The kitchenette opposite the bed (smaller but still white and well-made) was blackened with scorch marks and partially covered with a plastic tarp stained with red splotches. A vole scurried across the worn floor to hide under a tattered sofa. On the dining table: a grisly looking knife in the process of being sharpened, a disruptor, an empty bottle of alcohol, and disassembled electronic equipment.  

A broken window let in the scents of a city: exhaust and dirt and cloying perfume. They mingled with the apartment's stench of mildew. Voices in dubbed Kardasi came from all directions along with sirens and revving ground cars. Alien music throbbed from under the floorboards.

The only consistency that remained was the sweltering heat.

Julian was about to ask where they were when there was a knock on the door. Garak threw open the door. A man asked in Kardasi if this was room fifty. Garak leaned into the hallway and pointed, told the man to hang a left up the stairs.

Once the man had said his many thank-yous and Garak you're-welcomed him for the hundredth time, Julian said, "What was that?"

"Verisimilitude." Garak closed in on him. "Now, does this meet with your approval, or would you prefer an interrogation room?"

 _He couldn't possibly have such a program,_ Julian thought, burying his thrill at the idea. "This should do," he said, and circled his arms around Garak's neck, kissing him.

Garak sucked on his tongue, drawing a moan from Julian's throat. He broke away and reached for a coil of rope hanging from a hook. "Kneel."

If this weren’t a holosuite, Julian would've protested letting his skin come in contact with this dirty, rotting floor. He dropped to his knees, watching. Waiting. Garak circled, then glanced up at rings in the ceiling that Julian hadn't noticed before. He seemed to calculate.

From behind him, there was a swish of fabric; Julian’s vision went black as Garak cinched the blindfold. Julian took a breath to ease his pounding heart and rely on his other senses. Garak's hands caressed his shoulders, arms, belly, traced his spine. Then Garak grabbed his wrists and pulled them behind his back.

Julian tried to break away, but Garak's grip held. The coarse rope scratched his skin as it circled around and around his wrists, forming a cuff. The weaving continued, encompassing his arms, binding them together.

Garak moved fast, twisting and knotting. When he moved to begin tying Julian's torso, Julian struggled against the bonds, wiggling with all his strength. It got him nowhere. He grunted from the effort. Garak only chuckled, fingers tugging at the ropes here and there.

And then Garak was fashioning a sort of harness around him. Julian could feel the knots biting across his sternum and crisscrossing. He gasped as Garak flicked a nipple and attached a clamp. The bolt of pain made him shiver and he arched as Garak affixed the second. Then there was more tying and turning, the ropes going around his hips, and all the while he felt Garak's presence, sending reassuring energy.

He liked where this was going.

As the ropes circled the tender flesh of his inner thighs, Julian felt Garak pause. A fist grabbed the thong, now barely containing his erection, and ripped it off.

“Hey!" Julian said. "That was my only pair!”

Garak didn't deign to answer. What kind of tailor went around destroying clothes? His thoughts scattered as the rope descended and circled his scrotum. He tensed. Garak must've noticed because he applied a gentle kiss to his lips—in such sharp contrast to the rough rope digging into his skin that Julian whimpered—before continuing his work.

Garak called up the computer for an item. A second later, Garak lifted Julian like he weighed nothing, and set him prone on a padded surface, his legs dangling off the sides, bum raised. Julian squirmed and rubbed his cock against the new surface, smirking at his naughtiness. That earned him three hard spanks.

Julian leaned into it, as best as his bonds would allow. "More," he whispered. He was close to flying now.

"Whatever am I to do with you, Jules?"

"Whatever you want, sir."

To his disappointment, Garak didn't smack him again. Instead he moved on to wrapping each of his legs, tying Julian's calves to his thighs. Julian was beginning to enjoy the new sensations; he felt both helpless and safe, as if wrapped in a strong embrace that he couldn't, _wouldn't,_ leave.

"How do you feel?"

"Good _. So good."_

"You'll tell me if you begin to lose sensation."

"Yessir."

He heard the pop of a cap. Two slick fingers entered him. Julian moaned, surrendering to the bliss of floating, as Garak meticulously stretched him. He'd felt so empty, and he wanted nothing more than Garak to fill him. To prove his point, he clenched around Garak's fingers. _Deeper_ , _please._

Garak bit one of his arsecheeks and withdrew just long enough to shove a smooth bulb inside him. It began to vibrate. Julian squirmed and fought in his bonds as it teased him, driving him wild with need. As he writhed, he was only dimly aware of Garak rigging the ropes overhead. The rings clanked together.

"Please, Garak."

Garak's voice came from high: "Patience."

Julian growled in frustration. He was covered in sweat and certain the ropes were shrinking, cutting into his skin, but he held on. There was a rustle from behind—

—and Garak kicked the bench out from under him.

Julian shouted as he fell, maybe a foot, maybe an inch, before the ropes engaged and caught him. He felt the dizzying sensation of swinging and giggled, adrenaline pumping. "Oh fuck, oh fuck. You prick, you could've warned me!"

Leather connected with his backside, his shoulder, his sides. The slaps stung and sent Julian mentally reeling into his floating place. Garak seemed to be everywhere at once. And then Julian felt a disorienting _shift._ Garak was hoisting the ropes. Lifting him higher. Turning him _upside down._

He was still swinging when the ropes settled, and there was a skitter of something, some object, dragging across the floor. Julian trembled, fighting in his bonds, unsure how far he had to fall. Not that it mattered; Garak wasn't an amateur. He wouldn't fall.

Garak yanked away the blindfold. Julian blinked and twisted his neck around. Four full-length mirrors surrounded him, giving him a good view of his predicament. He was hanging upside down several feet off the floor, arms behind his back, legs bent and splayed, his hair dangling in sweaty clumps. The ropes across his chest and hips were tied with intricate knots, forming a harness.

Julian stared at the reflections of himself from all angles, heart pounding, pulse thumping against the ropes with each beat. "Garak," he whispered.

Garak's voice came from behind him, out of sight of the mirrors. “Hm?”

"I look like a work of art."

It sounded stupid in his ears, but Garak only licked and kissed at his exposed skin, almost reverently. _Because you are,_ he seemed to reply. 

Julian grinned and appraised Garak in turn. He'd taken off his jacket and was wearing a tunic that exposed his neckridges and showed his size, the fabric taut against his pectorals and arms. And he was fully everted, that big cock tenting the front of his trousers. Julian licked his lips as he found his mouth perfectly level with Garak’s crotch. That couldn't have been an accident. He felt his face redden at his own lust. After all this time, it still took him by surprise.

Arching his back and tilting his legs, Julian built momentum and swung forward, tongue out. He was inches from Garak's crotch when Garak stepped aside and whapped Julian on the back with his riding crop. Julian yelped. Garak laughed at him.

"You'd love to have me in your mouth, wouldn't you?" Garak purred, returning to position in Julian's sights.

Julian swung around again for another go, mouth wide in a silent battle cry.

Garak sidestepped, slapping him three times with the crop as he passed. "Dirty slut."

"You like it," Julian shot back.

This time, as Julian swung himself, Garak withdrew his cock and caught Julian's shoulders, easing Julian's mouth across his length. Julian sucked eagerly, his own cock twitching as Garak fucked his mouth.

"Yes," Garak hissed between clenched teeth, a rare moment of vocalization that pulled Julian out of his body. He let himself drift off, carried away by the vibrations inside him, the burn of the rope, and the taste of the man he loved on his tongue.

He ran his teeth over ridges, lapped and moaned around a thick, slippery cock, his whole world absorbed in pleasuring Garak.

"Close your eyes."

Julian obeyed, whining in protest when Garak pulled away. He heard the wet slap of Garak pumping himself to completion and had only a second to brace himself before the hot wetness sprayed his face. He should've found it humiliating, but instead he found himself giddy, wanting to be marked this way. Julian licked around his mouth greedily.

Garak grunted in startled approval. He scooped semen off Julian's cheek, held it out. Julian sucked and licked it up without hesitation. "You never cease to amaze me, my dear."

Julian smiled contentedly. He floated, literally and figuratively, as Garak adjusted his pulleys, engaging the ropes secured to his harness and slacking the ones at his legs. Soon he was prone again, dangling like a slab of meat. As the blood flowed away from his head, Julian fought waves of dizziness. He shook his head ineffectually.

Garak appeared at his side with a glass of water and cradled Julian's head as he gulped it down. It helped. Julian pulled himself out of the haze, just enough to notice Garak assessing him with cool eyes.

Garak returned to the ropes and Julian felt himself descending. "No, no, no, no!" he shouted, thrashing. "I'm okay, Garak. No! Kukalaka!"

A pause. "That's a blatant misuse of your safeword."

"Sorry but—I'm okay, Garak. Don't you dare put me down!"

The pulleys stopped. Garak returned with an expression of  _I'll be the judge of that_. He took Julian's chin in hand, examining him with narrowed eyes. Evidently satisfied, Garak nodded. “Very well.”

Julian relaxed, relieved that it wasn't over yet. Garak attached a rope from his left thigh to his left nipple clamp, then repeated the process to his right side. Julian didn't fully understand until Garak crouched to take his flagging erection into his mouth and Julian shifted his legs. The ropes yanked on the nipple clamps and he shrieked.

Garak chuckled against Julian's testicles. He drew each one into his mouth and swirled his tongue. "Try not to hurt yourself," he said. Smug, sadistic bastard.

Gritting his teeth, Julian focused on keeping his knees close to his chest. Garak was licking at his hole now, exploring where the vibrator still thrummed. Julian could see him in the mirror, tongue darting, fingers stroking and rubbing and _fuck,_ he was so good at that; Julian wanted to scream, serenity gone, demand that he stick his bloody cock in already. That was no good. Instead, he settled on quietly keening.

Garak was biting the inside of his thighs now, gripping the ropes and lapping at Julian's sweat. That was a good sign. It meant his control was fraying. "Please," Julian whispered, splaying his legs as far as the clamps would allow, hoping to push him over, "please, Garak, I need you inside me."

Garak stood, pulled out the vibrator, and tossed it aside. In the mirror, his scales had darkened, and there was a faraway look in his eyes that suggested he was in a primal, Cardassian trance, but not yet fully subsumed. All the same, it was unsettling. Julian wondered if they went to the same place. If so, Garak would be incapable of words now.

Which was perfectly fine with Julian. As Garak thrust inside him, he was happy to do all the talking. Being suspended allowed him to fly through the air, Garak swinging Julian onto his cock, driving deep, then pulling fully out to slam Julian back down again.

Julian screamed, letting himself go, committed to being roughly, thoroughly fucked. Tied like this, there was little Julian could do but enjoy every second while Garak did all the work to an erratic rhythm, growling in the back of his throat.

The pressure built, becoming so intense Julian felt tears sting his eyes. They fell down the sides of his face as he watched the stained floor shift back and forth. It was like he was being wound up tight, ready to burst. His stream-of-consciousness  _oh gods_  and  _please mores_  and  _fasters_ unraveled into gibberish. Garak didn’t show any signs of slowing down or stopping, the eyes in the mirror seemingly focused on the point where they were joined. If Julian didn’t get through to Garak, that Cardassian stamina could keep up until they were both raw.

“Garak,” he said between gasps, “Elim, Elim, please, come back to me.”

In the mirror, he saw Garak snap out of it with a rapid series of blinks. Closing his eyes, Garak ran his fingers across Julian’s flank and smiled. “Would you like something, my dear?”

“Yes, sir. Please, sir . . .”

One of Garak’s hands wrapped around Julian’s cock and stroked. “Come for me.”

Julian groaned, immediately spilling over Garak’s fist in bursts. Garak shuddered and came a moment later, thrusting until he’d milked himself dry. They stayed that way for a while, panting heavily. 

Garak swayed, pulled out, and returned to the pulleys, gently lowering Julian to the floor.

Eyes on the mirror, Julian watched Garak kneel behind him and untie the ropes, starting with the nipple clamps. He leaned back to kiss and nuzzle the ridge along Garak’s ear. “Did I please you, sir?” he whispered.

Garak answered by rubbing their cheeks together. “Very much.”

Julian could’ve purred like a cat, he was so happy.

After a time, he said, “I thought I lost you there.”

Garak raised a brow ridge. “It takes much more than that to fully lose myself. Don’t worry.”

“Who said I was worried?”

“You would be,” Garak said, coiling the rope, “if you had any sense.”

Julian rolled his eyes and shivered as Garak traced the red lines the ropes had left behind. “It’s a little late to be warning me off, Garak.” Arms freed, Julian stretched and shook them out. “Would you show me, if I asked?”

“Definitely not.”

That wasn’t a surprise. “Well, then, will you tell me what it feels like?”

In the mirror, Julian caught Garak wince. “Turn toward me, annoying human.” Julian obeyed, and Garak shot him a wary glance as his fingers plucked apart the knots around Julian’s clavicles. “Why are you so interested?”

“Perhaps I’m writing a paper. Comparative sexual response, et cetera, et cetera. Is it similar to what I experience?”

“Doctor, I have little idea what you experience.”

“You never—?”

“I couldn’t. What you feel is often triggered by pain.”

Julian opened his mouth, closed it. “The implant.”

Garak tilted his head, nodded once.

“But it’s been deactivated.”

“And for that I have you to thank, my dear.”

Julian knew Garak would squirm his way out of any question on the subject, but as usual that only further piqued his curiosity. Garak would sooner confess the reason for his exile than share the secrets of his inner psyche. “And if you _do_ lose control around me?”

Garak laughed, white teeth flashing a smile that danced the edge of joking and deadly serious. “You draw your phaser, doctor.”

Julian would be lying if he said that didn’t send a perverse thrill down his spine.

* * *

Ropes shed and recovering from another, more languid, round of sex, Julian sprawled out naked on the narrow bed, listening to the ambient noise of Cardassia Prime and examining the red lines marking his sweat-sheened skin. “What other programs do you have for us?” he asked, absently running a hand down Garak’s leg.

“I’m open to suggestions.” Beside him, Garak was equally intent on his own body, frowning as he picked stray, curling black hairs from his scales.

“I was thinking something Earth-themed. In the interest of cultural exchange, of course. Maybe ancient Egypt, or the Old West. Or medieval Europe.”  _Admit it, Julian,_ he thought to himself,  _you have no imagination and just want Garak to spank you in a dungeon._

“You're asking to indulge in fantasy?"

“I’d understand if you’re not gung-ho about it. Frankly, I’m shocked you even did this. I thought you hated holosuites.”

“I do.”

“Then why go to the trouble?”

Garak gave him a pointed look. “Because my dearest is obsessed with them, and I suffer to—” He suddenly grimaced and plucked a hair from his tongue. He glared at the invader in obvious distaste. 

Julian snickered. Garak’s expression of outrage was priceless. “Sorry about that.”

“Are you _sure_  you aren’t shedding?”

“Positive. It just happens when I get sweaty and rub up against something. Or someone. Would you rather I shave?”

“No, doctor. What I want is for your hairs to stay attached to you.”

“Well, too bad.” Julian crossed his arms. “You should’ve thought about that before you got involved with a mammal.”

Garak’s hand went to his scalp. “You could use a haircut, however.”

Julian’s reached up, entwining their fingers. His hair was a mess of tangles, sweat, and dried semen. Definitely not Starfleet regulation, he thought with a grin. “I’m thinking of growing it out.”

“Is that so?”

“Because  _my_  dearest is obsessed with grabbing it, and— _ow!_ _”_ Julian laugh-yelped as Garak tugged a fistful of his hair, jerking his head back to kiss him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings for** descriptions of capital punishment, mild violence, silliness, and Odo throwing shade.

The latest transport from Bajor disgorged its passengers. Odo glanced through the manifest and paused as he caught a familiar name. He lifted his head to examine the crowd.

There: carrying a silver briefcase in one hand and no other luggage, a Romulan man weaved through the mess of people. As usual, the recorded reason for his visit was “business,” but Odo doubted there’d be anything of monetary value exchanged while he was aboard.

T’Koll noticed him and smiled; Odo replied with a single nod he used to convey that the other man was free to go, but on his radar. He had a plethora of suspicions about that one—a wealthy Romulan expat living on Bajor for the past decade, seemingly undeterred by the Occupation or its end. There was little more known than that, other than rumors claiming T’Koll had strange appetites and a penchant for hosting lavish events.

None of this would normally pique Odo’s interest, but over the past three years, he’d noticed T’Koll’s visits to the station increasing in frequency. At first, he’d appeared every six months, then every three, and now each month, almost to the day.

More suspicious was the object of his attentions.

But Odo had higher priorities than the Romulan. He continued with his routine, making the rounds, then checked in at Quark's to ensure the Ferengi was on good behavior. Upon crossing the threshold, he noticed Quark slip something into Broik's waiting hand. _This again._ It seemed Odo was just in time to witness Quark's latest scheme.

The waiter didn't hazard a glance at the item he carried; he turned and left the bar with single-minded determination. Familiar with this game, Odo counted down ten seconds and followed after.

He already knew where this was going. Broik headed toward the infirmary at a casual pace. Odo kept his distance. Then the waiter paused, turned his head. Odo followed his gaze. Ah. Doctor Bashir was on the Promenade, strolling alongside Chief O’Brien.

Broik was on the move, this time coming toward the two men. Odo stayed in place, watching as the Ferengi passed close and reverse pickpocketed the doctor. Odo shook his head at the obviousness of it. Criminals were so often stupid creatures. For his part, Bashir only patted his pocket, a smile creeping to his lips, attention never leaving O’Brien’s face.

This had been going on for several months now, as far as he could tell. Quark and Doctor Bashir would exchange paper messages, using other Ferengi as intermediaries. Odo had intercepted several of these but had found the contents to be gibberish. Coded. That only increased his suspicions that there was something nefarious transpiring between the doctor and the station’s resident scofflaw.

Odo had tolerated enough of it.

Keeping his distance, Odo followed Bashir until he and O’Brien went their separate ways. Odo commed Eddington, told him he’d be following a lead for an indeterminate amount of time. Then he decided to head Bashir off to the infirmary. When he reached his destination, Odo glanced about the corridor to make sure the coast was clear and shifted into a medical tricorder.

As expected, Bashir stopped to pick him up. “Ho, what are you doing out here, little guy?”

For an alarming second, Odo feared he’d already been discovered.

But it seemed Bashir had a habit of talking to inanimate objects because the doctor carried him inside the infirmary without another comment. There, Odo sat on a table undisturbed while Bashir bustled around. He carried out his duties without deviation. 

After three hours, there was a brief lull. When the nurses were out of sight, Bashir reached into his pocket and unrolled the white paper. He stared at it for a time—puzzling out its meaning, Odo assumed—and, chuckling to himself almost hysterically, slipped the note back into his pocket. “Damn you, you sadistic bastard.”

A bewildering reaction.

Odo watched the doctor closely thereafter, looking for tells, expecting him to use his credentials as CMO to open a locker and retrieve valuables—medical-grade narcotics, perhaps. When Bashir did nothing of the sort, Odo despaired that he’d wasted an afternoon, that the doctor’s scheme was more cleverly concealed than anticipated.

Odo was ready to get out of there when Bashir took hold of him and attached him to a hip. Captive now, Odo had no choice but to follow along as the doctor breezed out of the infirmary.

Bashir ran into Dax outside, and after an exchange of pleasantries, she asked, “How’d it go?”

Bashir cleared his throat pointedly.

They must’ve been exchanging facial expressions because Odo caught none of what was being communicated. At last, Dax laughed and said, “What did you do this time?”

“Apparently, I make a rubbish table.”

“You make a better chair, if you ask me.”

"Very funny. I was sitting there for two hours with at least three drinks on my back. Two  _hours_ , Jadzia. My knees hurt, and I had to—” Bashir’s voice dropped to a whisper, “— _use the facilities_ , and I was tired and mad because I was a goddamn _table_ , so I got up—”

“The drinks—”

“Spilled everywhere.” Bashir paused. “Spilled on him.”

Odo struggled to parse this conversation. His first impulse was to conclude that Bashir had been replaced by a changeling. Unlikely as that was, it was the only explanation for why he'd practice turning into a table. But he’d described being on his knees and needing to urinate; no, that didn’t fit with the changeling theory, leaving Odo with the even less reasonable conclusion that Bashir had been  _pretending_  to be a table. Why would a solid ever do that?

“Why didn’t you ask for permission?” Dax said.

“To use the _restroom_ _?”_

“Tables don’t pee, Julian.”

“They don’t very well speak, either!”

A pause. “Have you found out when you’re meeting again?”

Bashir’s fingers twitched and unconsciously lingered over the pocket that hid the note. Odo had been tuning out the conversation to limited effect; now he paid attention. “Five days,” Bashir said, a pained edge in his voice.

Satisfied with this information, Odo waited until the corridor was empty to shift into a liquid. Absorbed in their peculiar conversation, Dax and Bashir kept walking, oblivious to Odo transforming into a gray mouse and scurrying off.

* * *

"Welcome back," Odo said as he entered Garak's shop.

Garak glanced up from where he was meticulously folding garments. "Constable. You make it sound as if I went somewhere."

Odo pressed his lips together in an approximation of a smile. He wasn't fooled, of course. They’d gone through this routine the month before, and the month before that. Last time, Garak had claimed that he’d thought T’Koll was a Vulcan, and never would’ve associated with him had he known he was one of those treacherous Romulans. At this point, Odo was stopping by as a matter of principle. “That's because you did. Two days on Bajor, to be exact."

"You're mistaken. My shop was closed, yes, but I’ve been deathly ill.”

"You look fine to me.” Odo waved the padd he was carrying. “Come on, Garak, I have the ship's manifest right here."

"Is my name on it?"

Odo sighed. "Of course it isn't. You used one of your aliases. Elek Cratchit? Please. That's preposterous."

Garak appeared at his side, examining the padd. "Dear me, I hope Mister Cratchit didn't hear you say that!”

“Then you deny—”

“It's not one of mine.” Garak’s infuriating smile suggested he was enjoying stringing Odo along. "Would you like a hint?"

Garak raised his finger to point, then seemed to hesitate. Odo was about to tell him to stop wasting his time when he noticed Garak's attention had been drawn to the doors.

Doctor Bashir stood in the threshold. "Where the hell have _you_ been?" said Bashir.

Ignoring the doctor, Garak looked over to Odo, his expression mild. "Sunbathing."

"Sunbathing." Odo snorted. "On Bajor."

"You went to Bajor?" Bashir said.

Garak pulled up a sleeve, holding his arm out for Odo's appraisal. "My scales lose their coloring unless exposed to natural light. You'll pardon my vanity, won't you?"

They did look bluer, Odo admitted.

Bashir sighed loudly.

"Doctor," Garak said, widening his eyes, "for the last time, your lingerie won't be ready for another two days. I had to order a special Andorian silk to compliment your—" He made an extraneous gesture. "—Unfeminine frame, and it's most _difficult_ to work with. Stubborn, really. I trust a big boy like you can be patient?"

Bashir's face reddened; Odo couldn't tell if it was in embarrassment or anger. Odo didn't appreciate being caught in the middle of this mean-spirited bickering, but he got the impression there was much more being communicated here. Not that he understood a lick of it.

With a huff and a glare, Bashir stalked off.

“Did he seem rather—” Garak clicked his tongue, smirking. “ _Testy_ to you?”

Odo rolled his eyes. “You have that effect on everyone, Garak.”

* * *

When the day of Bashir's secret meeting arrived, Odo was ready. He had the doctor in his sights the moment Bashir emerged from his quarters that morning. It was only a matter of waiting and seeing what happened.

And it would be a long wait. The morning passed with a flurry of cases of a new retrovirus that left its victims paralyzed and coughing pink phlegm. Doctor Bashir managed to pinpoint the source of the virus to a houseplant someone had smuggled onto the station because “it was pretty,” and had developed a cure by the time Commander Sisko began to show symptoms.

Bashir met Dax for lunch at the Replimat. Odo observed from afar, out of hearing range, reluctant to be privy to another one of their bizarre conversations. 

Later, a fire broke out on a docked freighter, interrupting the second half of the day and requiring Odo, Bashir, and Chief O’Brien to rush aboard to rescue the crew and navigate the ship out of range of the station before its core breached. Odo and O’Brien beamed out before the ship exploded; Odo made it to the infirmary to find Bashir struggling to save a young girl who’d sustained serious burns to most of her body. Bashir stayed with her, showing no sign of giving up, right to the end. She fought hard, but succumbed to her wounds. He cradled his head in his hands as the nurses rallied around him.

The infirmary was quiet for the rest of the day.

After his shift, Bashir returned to his quarters at a ponderous pace; it was easy for Odo to keep up on his tiny mouse legs, sticking close to the baseboards to go unnoticed by passersby. Bashir slipped inside the room and the door sent a breeze across Odo’s tail as it closed. He hid under the sofa.

Bashir paced around the living room, fingers running through his hair, muttering to himself, “Keep it together, keep it together.”

Odo felt sorry for him. Even if he _was_  very likely participating in illegal activities with Quark. Losing patients, especially a child, and being unable to do anything but alleviate the pain—it had to be distressing.

Eventually, Bashir disappeared into the bathroom, and Odo heard the shower run. He waited. Presently, the tap shut off and Odo heard rustling and more muttering from the bedroom. When Bashir emerged, Odo struggled to deconstruct what he was seeing.

The boots were what Odo noticed first, being closest to his field of vision: they were a tan brown, reached mid-calf, and had pointed toes and a higher heel than the Starfleet regulation boots with which Odo was familiar. Metal spurs attached to the back made a rattling sound as the doctor paced back and forth.

From there: Bashir wore woolen pants, the same blue as his Starfleet uniform; a white, high collared shirt; a blue vest; and a brown jacket. Atop his head sat a white felt hat with a wide brim. The outfit looked familiar, but Odo couldn’t place its exact origin. Earth, most likely. 

Bashir was switching from frantically searching his belongings to checking the time. “Belt, belt, belt,” he repeated under his breath like a mantra, tearing up cushions and looking behind furniture. “Where did I put the fucking  _belt_ _?”_

Bashir bent down to peek under the sofa. Odo hurried across the room before he could be spotted. This was his opening. It wasn’t opportune (he’d much rather be a hat—more dignified, with a more commanding view), but it would do. While Bashir overturned piles of padds and rummaged through a closet, growing more frustrated by the second, Odo shifted upon a chair’s armrest, coiling himself and flattening. Recalling a belt he’d seen on the Promenade once, Odo approximated dark brown leather and a turquoise-and-white marbled buckle.

“Bugger me,” Bashir was hissing now, “bugger me, I can’t do anything—”

Odo noticed Bashir’s eyes settle on him. If the doctor was suspicious of where a new belt had come from, he didn’t show it as he crossed the room and picked Odo up. The tension seemed to rush out of him. “Is there nothing you _don’t_ think of?”

Odo felt that disorienting sense of alarm, caught himself as he realized Bashir was once again talking to himself. It was a habit Odo was beginning to hate in this particular solid. Without a second thought, Bashir slid him through the belt loops and was on his way.

Bashir didn’t dawdle, thankfully. He headed straight for Quark’s bar, pausing only to greet each person who smiled in his direction on his way there. Part of the attention was attributed to Bashir’s outlandish costume, but Odo doubted he'd receive such positive attention if _he_ roamed Deep Space Nine in such a getup.

Bashir went straight to the bar, where Quark argued with a customer over the percentage of alcohol in his ale. “Howdy, doctor,” Quark said, sliding over. “Can I get you anything?"

"A whiskey sour. Get me in the mood."

Quark shook his head. "I forgot. You've got friends upstairs."

"Then I'll be on my way."

"Code's eight-one-six-three. You need directions?"

"I think I can manage, thanks."

And Bashir was on the move again, heading toward the back room like he belonged there, accessing Quark's not-so-secret backdoor entrance to the holosuites. As Bashir keyed in the code and entered, Odo puzzled over the interaction, trying to fit how the messages, Quark, Bashir's costume, and the holosuites fit together. Bashir clearly didn't want anyone knowing he was there, which suggested there was a quality about his activities he must find shameful or illicit.

It briefly occurred to Odo that it might be sexual, but he dismissed that immediately. Dax had seemed aware of these ‘meetings,’ and friends didn’t share such intimate details. Did they?

The doors opened to a pale blue sky and the press of a large crowd dressed similarly to the doctor, although shabbier. Odo could see and feel nothing but skirts and leather chaps and the back of an occasional child’s head as Bashir pushed through. Everyone was facing one direction, seemingly rapt, whispering back and forth. A performance of some kind?

As Bashir neared what Odo guessed was the front, he stopped. “Oh, god,” he said and began to shove through the crowd as if nauseated.

At last, he emerged and sprinted toward a large white building with a sign that read “Little Rock Federal Courthouse.” Odo only caught a glimpse of a wooden stage out front, the impressive crowd, and someone asking loudly, “ _last words?”_ before Bashir hurried inside.

The courthouse appeared deserted. Bashir’s boots clacked against the floorboards as he strode through a hallway. He approached a door, cracked open, and knocked twice.

“If that’s you, deputy,” a man said from inside, “come on in.”

Bashir pushed the door open. A gray-bearded human man in shirtsleeves sat behind an oak desk, his chair turned toward an open window with a commanding view of the spectacle below.

“Good afternoon, Chief Williams,” Bashir said.

“No need being so sheepish, son. Come in. Sit down. Bourbon?”

Bashir seemed to deliberately sit on the windowsill, preventing himself from looking out. It allowed Odo to finally have a good look himself, however. He studied the stage, where four men stood, hands tied behind their backs. Three wore black hoods over their heads, and the last was saying something to the crowd. A last speech.

Bashir accepted a glass of brown liquid, sipped it. “I’m ready to come back.”

“How’d you find your holiday?”

“You mean my _forced_ holiday?”

“Don’t say it like that, son. You know I hated suspending you. It was for your own good. Clear your head. I can’t have my best marshal distraught over his first shooting. Speaking of which.” The chief reached into a drawer and pulled out a bundle, setting it atop the desk. “Consider yourself reinstated.”

Below, a lawman was tightening a hood over the fourth man’s head.

Bashir took the bundle: a white-handled pistol in a leather holster, and a round, gold emblem of a star with silver inlays. He attached the holster around his waist and clipped the star to Odo. Straightening up, he said, “What’s my assignment, sir?”

“We’ve got it on authority that Lucky Sikes and his Parisian gang are set to rob a train coming through Indian Territory. We’ve got a good idea where they’re planning to derail it." The chief opened up a paper map and pointed. "I want you aboard. Not to stop the robbery, mind, but to follow Sikes to his hideout.”

“I could stop the stickup,” Bashir said.

“You against the entire Parisian gang? No. ‘Sides, that ain’t Marshal business, son. Missouri Pacific's already got expressmen protecting the money. Let them do their job, and you do yours.”

“If the train’s stopping in Little Rock, I’m sure Sikes and his men will be boarding along with me. It would be simplest if I just—”

“Arrest them and start a shootout on a passenger train?”

“Ah.”

“Wait ‘til you’re in the Territories. You’ve got sand, kid, but you gotta think ‘fore you act.”

 _Good advice,_ Odo thought. He liked this Chief Williams.

“One other thing,” the chief said, “while you were on holiday, the Black Tie Gang’s been coming after the Parisians, robbing them at every turn.”

Bashir leaned forward. “Do you think they’ll show up here?”

“I wouldn’t put it past ‘em. Now, if you even catch a whiff of those mean bastards, you high tail it and wait for backup. Most of my other marshals are down south chasing Father Winchester, but some are coming back. I’ll send them your way. Under no circumstances are you to engage.”

“I can handle—”

“Last time you took those boys on, you bloodied your hands and they sent you back to Arkansas hog-tied to the back of your horse. Remember?”

“I remember,” Bashir muttered. “But I’ve—”

“You go after them with a score to settle, they won’t think twice about shooting you dead. I don’t need it on my soul, you coming back in pieces this time.”

_Listen to your superior, Bashir._

“Yes, sir,” Bashir said with obvious reluctance.

Down below, the hangman pulled a lever, and the bodies dropped. Even through the window, Odo could hear the simultaneous snap of necks. The crowd gasped and clapped. Bashir flinched, squirmed at the sound. Three of the bodies swung, limp. Odo noticed one still kicking.

The chief’s expression softened. “Not one for capital punishment, are you?”

“I hate it.”

“You were a frontier doctor before this, weren’t you?”

“In Oregon, yes.”

“One hell of a career change. That’s what makes you a good marshal, son. You ain’t like those vigilantes wanting to play gunman, gambling and pimping on the side to make ends meet. You care about doing good.” The chief checked his pocket watch. “Better get going, before you miss your train.”

Bashir downed the rest of his bourbon and left. Outside, the crowd was dispersing, getting in Bashir’s way. He weaved through the town center to the station, where a massive locomotive stood at the platform. Bashir was conversing with a uniformed man about the purchase of a ticket when the man shook his head and pointed.

Bashir turned. The train in question was loudly pulling away. “Fuck me,” Bashir whispered, and turned back to the man, whose face had flushed at the curse. “Ticket now, please!”

Another man might’ve not bothered, but Bashir was determined to pay, exchanging bills with the uniformed man and shouting a thank you before taking off down the platform at a sprint. Odo was questioning the wisdom of this when Bashir pulled alongside the train, made eye contact with the car attendant inside, and jumped over the gap with a surprising show of athleticism. The attendant pulled open the door, letting him inside.

“Deputy U.S. Marshal Julian Bashir,” said the doctor, ticket out.

The attendant reflexively punched the ticket, mouth open.

"Thank you." Bashir turned into the aisle. People occupied most of the seats. "Where is the baggage car in relation to us?"

“It's two cars behind.”

Bashir asked more questions about the train, the mail car, the express car, and the personnel aboard, then found a seat. He took out the map the chief had given him and looked it over. Odo, stuck with a dull view, had resigned himself to a long ride ahead when suddenly Bashir stood up again.

He paced the aisle, a ball of energy, making the other passengers nervous in the process. He didn't seem to notice the effect he had. Odo wanted to tell him to sit down, but at least from here he caught glimpses of the scenery flashing outside the window.

Little Rock grew distant, turned to smaller towns, then became homesteads. Time accelerated in the holosuite; a journey that would've taken days passed within ten minutes.

Their surroundings had transformed into a wilderness of rolling hills and wooded forest when there was a loud _bang_ from behind them. Bashir jumped up, pistol drawn, then toppled back as a second, closer explosion rocked the train from ahead. Metal squealed. Passengers screamed. Bashir clutched the back of a seat and swayed.

As the car slowed, Bashir ran out the back, jumped to the next car, and peeked through the window in the door. Whatever he saw inside made him quickly lean back against the railing.

The tracks curved, allowing Odo to see the cars behind them. They’d broken off from the rest of the train and stopped. Several riderless horses stood motionless in the tracks.

Bashir tried the door. It was locked. By now their car had nearly stopped. Odo was wondering what Bashir planned to do when the doctor vaulted over the railing and jumped to the ground.

As Bashir cased around, Odo got the lay of the land. To the left of the train jutted a steep drop-off, rocky and peppered with towering evergreen trees. To the right: a panorama of forest. Perfect cover for an ambush, in Odo's estimation. Up ahead, the front of the train and the first few cars lay tilted to the side, derailed, engineers and personnel standing outside with hands above their heads. Two men wearing bandannas over their noses pointed guns at them.

Ancient Earth criminals were strange-looking beings. 

Crouched between two passenger cars, Bashir had yet to be noticed. If he had any sense, he’d hide in the woods and wait. Observe where his quarry Lucky Sikes had gone and pursue him. The chief had been explicit, hadn’t he? This robbery wasn’t his fight.

There was shouting and crying up ahead—women’s voices, by the sound of it—and Bashir skulked in that direction. _Naturally_. Odo didn’t know why he expected Bashir to do anything less than play the hero.

Bashir drew close, and Odo caught sight of two more bandits barking orders at a line of passengers, mostly women and children. “Turn out your pockets,” said one, jabbing a man with the barrel of his rifle. “You too, lady, I see you hiding that necklace. Give it here.”

A child sobbed as the woman, sniffling, handed over a string of pearls.

“That’s better,” the first bandit said. “Otis, how’s it look? Any injuns on the way?”

“Not that I see,” said Otis.

“What about Taylor and his boys?”

“All’s quiet.”

“Then help Lucky with that safe there. I got it covered here.”

Otis ambled away without another word, heading toward the back of the train. Bashir ducked as he passed, then turned his attention to the first bandit, who had resumed terrorizing the passengers for pocket change.

_Don’t do it, Bashir._

Ignoring Odo’s silent pleas, Bashir called out, “I remember a time when common outlaws didn’t harass women and children.”

The bandit shifted, looked around. “Who’s that?”

“Deputy U.S. Marshal Julian Bashir.”

“A federal!" the bandit said, boots clacking as he followed Bashir’s voice. “You got a writ to show me, marshal?”

“Drop the gun, and I just might.”

“Well, pardon me if I don’t oblige. Maybe you better go on your way, and I won’t shoot these innocent women and children here. Out the goodness of my heart.”

Bashir raised his pistol and shot the man in the hand. Unwise. He screamed, dropping the weapon and drawing the attention of his comrades, who began to yell. 

Bashir ran out to grab the rifle and toss it into the ravine below. The bandit had doubled over, clutching his bleeding palm and cursing as Bashir ordered the passengers to take refuge in the woods until help arrived.

The passengers were foolishly digging for their belongings when Odo heard the thud of galloping horses and the many thundering bangs of successive gunfire. The bandits shouted and returned fire.

Bashir took a step. The train cars blocked his and Odo's view of the chaos. "Get down!" he shouted at the passengers.

He was so focused on the passengers that he didn’t notice the wounded bandit creeping toward him. With a holler, the bandit tackled Bashir and together they tumbled into the ravine. Odo had no choice but to fall along with them.

* * *

Odo's world spun as Bashir rolled down—sky, then sliding dirt, then sky again— hands grasping at passing boulders and trees and shrubs, trying to slow his momentum. The bandit grabbed at Bashir, scratching and howling and trying to use the doctor to break his fall.

The rocks cut into Odo. The dirt and gravel burned. They seemed to fall forever, Bashir fighting to get away from the man bent on killing him.

And then Bashir and the man screamed. The bandit sailed past; Bashir caught hold of something and slammed into a wall of dirt. Disoriented, for a long time Odo could only hear Bashir's gasping breaths.

They'd tumbled into a kind of vertical cave, the hole wide and dark. As the light shifted, Odo made out the bottom four meters below Bashir's feet. The bandit lay facedown, unmoving. Neck snapped. Like the hanged men.

Bashir brought up his legs and tried to climb out. He grasped a thick tree root in one hand and reached to find the top of the hole with the other. He cursed as his grip slipped and he nearly fell. He sucked in a deep breath and tried again. 

Suddenly there was a rattle from below, like a child shaking a toy full of rocks. Bashir tensed. The rattle was followed by another. Then another. And another. It formed a cacophony, echoing through an inner cavern.

“Bloody hell,” Bashir said. “I forgot America had those.”

 _Those_ turned out to be many curled, fat snakes wagging their tails. From the way Bashir scrambled, Odo guessed it was not a doglike show of happiness.

Bashir's desperation to climb out only loosened his lifeline. The tree root snapped. With a last frantic grab for the surface, Bashir fell.

He landed hard on his back, squashing Odo underneath him, and made a strained wheeze. Once he’d regained his breath, Bashir patted down his torso and legs, checking for injuries. From his sigh of relief, Odo assumed he remained unharmed. 

Slowly, Bashir sat up and immediately froze: five snakes cornered them, coiled and rattling their tails. Bashir jumped back and groped for his pistol. Gone, Odo knew. It had flown from his hand during the tumble, along with the doctor’s hat. Instead, Bashir grabbed the remains of the tree root, brandishing it like a sword. “Shoo, shoo!”

The nearest snake shot out and snapped its jaws around the stick.

Bashir dropped it. “Okay, aggression bad. Got it.” He crouched down, hands up, trying to look small and nonthreatening. “Better? I’m not here to hurt you. Really, I don’t want me here either.” Bashir tilted his head toward the surface. “Help!”

As if in answer, a shotgun blast rang out. Bashir huddled, hands over his ears. The shots continued, tearing into the snakes and sending dirt flying.

When the blasts stopped and the smoke and debris settled, the snakes lay in shreds.

“Are you still alive, dear marshal?” a voice called down.

 _I know that voice!_ Odo thought. Of all the people for Bashir to secretly meet in a holosuite—

What was going on here?

Bashir clambered to his feet, allowing Odo a view of the surface. Standing beside a heavily muscled black horse, Garak was nearly camouflaged in his own black suit, waistcoat, and low hat. Beneath the waistcoat he wore a white shirt with a black ascot tie at the collar. Gray smoke withered from the twin barrels of the shotgun he carried in his hands.

“Disappointed, Mister Taylor?” Bashir said.

Garak smiled. “Are you bit?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Good. It would be  _such_  a pity if I had to suck the venom out. Now, whatever are you doing hiding down there, marshal?”

Odo heard the scowl in Bashir’s voice as he said, “I’m not _hiding_ , Mister Taylor! One of Sikes’ men—” Bashir pointed to the body at his feet. “—pushed me over.”

“I saw. Oh, I almost forgot.” Garak reached over to his horse and held up a white hat. “I believe this is yours.” He tossed it into the pit.

Bashir picked it up, dusting off the brim before setting it atop his head. “You didn’t happen to also find a pistol lying about, did you?”

Garak’s grin widened. “I don’t believe I did.”

“Of course not.”

Garak turned to a similarly-dressed, mustached man nearby and threw the shotgun at him. Catching it, the man broke the shotgun open and reloaded. Garak lifted his hat to Bashir, bowed at the neck, and moved to climb onto his horse. “Good day, dear marshal.”

“Hey, wait!” Bashir said. “Where are you going?”

“Why, I have a train to rob, of course.”

“You can’t leave me here!”

“Marshal, why would an outlaw such as myself rescue a lawman from peril?”

“You could take me as your prisoner.”

“I did that once already, and you weren’t particularly amenable to my methods.”

“You tried to sear me with a branding iron!”

Garak lifted one boot into a stirrup. “I’m afraid I’m quite busy. Perhaps there’s an opening at the other end of that cavern. You might even make it out if you don’t disturb any other snakes.”

Bashir shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Please."

"What was that?"

"I said  _please_ _,_ you wanker."

Garak hesitated, turned to reward Bashir with a smug smile. “Since you ask so politely, very well.” He took a rope from his horse’s tack, uncoiled it, and threw one end down.

Bashir accepted the help without good grace, muttering as he climbed.

When he reached the top, Garak made a show of dusting Bashir off. “You’re so dirty,” he said.

“I fell down a mountain,” Bashir said. “You’re bloody right I’m dirty!”

“From my estimation, it’s more of a large hill. Good, I see you brought your cuffs.”

Bashir glanced between Garak and the other man, the latter of whom had the shotgun trained on Bashir’s head. “I was hoping to see how these fit on  _you_ _,”_ Bashir said, unclipping the cuffs and holding them out.

Garak laughed. “The key?”

“Up your arse.”

“My, my.” Undeterred, Garak fished into Bashir’s pockets with a polite “excuse me” until he found what he was looking for. Wrenching Bashir’s wrists together, Garak fastened them with such efficiency Odo wondered who the real lawman was here. No wonder Earth had once been overrun with criminals. “I’d love nothing more than to satisfy your curiosity, marshal,” he said conversationally, “but not today.”

Bashir whimpered as Garak tugged on the cuffs. Garak lifted him up, and Bashir gave an undignified thrash.

_You’d make an abysmal security officer, Doctor Bashir._

Garak set Bashir over the horse, up front. “Do try to sit still, my dear,” Garak said as he climbed into the saddle behind him. “I’d hate for you to fall again.”

Mounting his own horse, Garak’s lackey said, “You’re getting soft, Eli.”

“That I am,” Garak agreed, sending his stallion up the rocky hillside Bashir had only recently tumbled down.

It seemed that Garak had managed to find a name even more preposterous than Elek Cratchit.

The horses ascended easily and Odo noticed Bashir rest heavily against Garak, perhaps to maintain his balance. Garak leaned forward and murmured something in Bashir’s ear. Odo caught none of it, but Garak’s tone was serious.

“I was,” Bashir whispered back, “but I’m feeling much better now. Thank you, Garak.”

Soon they reached the top of the hill. Garak squeezed the sides of the horse with his boots and it broke into a canter, running along the tracks toward the back of the train. The passengers seemed to have disappeared. Bashir audibly sucked in a breath as he caught sight of the bodies lying in the dirt where they’d fallen. Some were uniformed train personnel. The rest were clearly Sikes’ men.

Garak brought the horse to the rear car. As Garak dismounted, his mustached lackey remained, grabbing the stallion’s reins in one hand, the other resting on the handle of his holstered pistol. He shot Bashir a warning stare.

Garak entered the car. From this angle, Odo could only see part of the open door. He heard Garak exchange brief words with someone inside and then say, “Did he give up the combination?”

“We haven’t been able to get a word out of him, sir.”

“We still have enough dynamite to blow the safe,” said another.

Garak tutted and shooed out his lackeys. “Go, my dears, and keep the marshal company.”

Three well-dressed thugs in black ascot ties emerged from the car and circled around Bashir. “Look who’s here!” said one.

“Marshal Bashir!”

One punched Bashir lightly in the thigh. “Did you miss us?”

How many times had Bashir been captured by these people?

Bashir actually laughed. “Hey, Pete. How’s the shoulder?”

“Swell.” Pete rolled his arm, as if throwing a baseball pitch. “Good as new.”

“Glad to hear it. How about you let me out of these cuffs?”

“Trying to leave us again, so soon?” said the first outlaw.

Garak’s voice came from inside the car: “That’s mighty kind of you to say, sir.” There was a metallic squeak of hinges. The three outlaws raised their heads at the sound and gathered around the car. Soon Garak was tossing out sacks of cash to his lackeys. They loaded the bounty into their saddlebags.

“Must be near twenty grand in there!” said Pete once they’d emptied the safe.

“Twenty-three,” Garak corrected as he swung into his saddle. He kicked his horse into a gallop and the others followed behind him, cheering and howling yehaws from the backs of their horses. Within minutes the train grew distant, shrouded behind hills and trees. 

“What happened to Lucky Sikes?” Bashir said presently, shouting to be heard over the stampede of hooves.

Garak shrugged. “I believe he ran into the woods.”

“Then let me off here.”

“Dear marshal, this isn’t a stagecoach! Really, do you not understand your current circumstance?”

“You got what you came for. What do you need with me?”

“Oh, I can think of  _several_ things.”

“Much as I’d love to share in the spoils of your ill-gotten gains, Mister Taylor, I’m in pursuit of Mister Sikes.”

“What? You’re following  _him_ _?”_

“I have a writ for his apprehension.”

“And what about me?”

“What  _about_ you? You’re not the only outlaw in the country, you egomaniac!”

“But Lucky Sikes! Surely you can do better!”

 _I assure you, Garak,_ Odo thought,  _he can’t._ So far they hadn’t caught a glimpse of the oft-referenced criminal.

“He’s the leader of the largest gang in the state of Arkansas!” Bashir said. When Garak harrumphed, he twisted around. “Could it be that you’re jealous, Mister Taylor?”

“Suddenly I’m looking forward to ransoming you back to the marshal’s service.”

“You just made off with enough money to live in luxury for the rest of your miserable life, and you want more?”

“I’m a greedy man, my dear.”

And so they went, back and forth, until Odo had to tune out their bantering to maintain his sanity. This behavior only added to Odo’s confusion; weren’t these two currently on the outs? Only two days ago, he’d witnessed them bicker in Garak’s shop, and now they were badinaging like none of that had happened, without a hint of hard feelings.

Understanding began to click. All the public quarreling was simply that—public. But why bother with the elaborate show of hostility? Why bother with the secret messages? Why not use secure comm channels instead? To his disappointment, Odo was certain now that Garak was the true source of Bashir’s missives, using Quark merely as a go-between. It had worked rather well. He hadn't even considered there was someone else behind it. 

Yet there was still a piece missing. This ruse hardly seemed necessary if all they were doing was playing cowboys in a holosuite. Everyone on the station had long become used to their confounding friendship.

Night had fallen, the terrain illuminated by only the full moon overhead. The two were still prattling on. It was a wonder to Odo how they hadn’t lost their voices.

Up ahead, Pete stuck two fingers into his mouth and whistled.

A beat later, another whistle answered from the forest.

They rode on.

Later, the trees closed in and the underbrush grew thick, forcing them to slow. This time it was the mustached lackey who whistled. The whistled reply was louder. Closer now.

Suddenly Bashir leaned against Garak and said, “Why did you go to Bajor?”

Garak seemed just as surprised as Odo. “Bajor, marshal?”

Bashir sighed. “You know, that former plantation your people controlled until recently because they _lost the war_. The one where you’re not exactly _welcome_ —”

“Ah, yes. Bajor.”

“What were you doing down there?”

“Marshal, seeing as how I’m not under arrest—” Garak cut himself off. “Ah, here we are!”

A cabin-like structure sat obscured behind evergreen trees. Lights glowed yellow from within. As they drew close, Odo caught sight of the silhouettes of at least seven men standing with guns drawn.

Garak brought his horse within ten feet of the building and reined it in. The men on the porch immediately holstered their firearms. “How’d it go, sir?” asked one.

Garak said nothing, but he must’ve smiled because the other outlaws burst into grins and rowdiness. While Garak tied his horse to a post, his lackeys descended on their bounty, carrying bundles of cash and jewelry inside. Those who noticed Bashir greeted him with more punches to the leg. “Marshal Bashir!” they said. “Back for more?”

“Still playing lawman, Jules?”

“Decided to join the winning side, did ya?”

“You gotta learn to use a gun if you wanna earn your keep.”

Bashir bore this mockery with a bowed head—until one outlaw lifted him off the horse, pinched his cheek, and said, “Eli, can we keep him?”

Bashir fought in his cuffs. “This is getting ridiculous! I am _not_ a puppy!”

This protest only prompted more laughter.

Garak turned from his horse and smiled. It was the kind of smile the signaled danger and set Odo on edge. Bashir must’ve noticed it, too, because he tensed as Garak approached and grabbed his arm. “Come inside,” he said pleasantly as he shoved Bashir toward the cabin.

Bashir resisted, twisting away from Garak’s grasp, before giving up the pretense. He was unarmed and outnumbered. He allowed Garak to lead him inside.

Across from the front door ascended a wood staircase leading to the upper level. Garak dragged Bashir into a barroom, where two young women in long dresses and aprons served drinks. Past the bar (now piled with money and other stolen valuables) and many circular tables, Odo recognized a piano along the far wall. The mustached outlaw crossed the room to sit at its bench and, dangling his fingers over the keys, began to play.

Garak pulled out a chair from the center table and, gripping Bashir’s shoulders, forced him into it.

“I hope I don’t have to impress on you how precarious your situation is,” Garak said as one outlaw pressed the barrel of a pistol to the hollow of Bashir’s throat. “Can you behave yourself?”

To Odo’s surprise, Bashir only nodded.

Garak smiled and unfastened the cuffs around Bashir’s wrists. The doctor shifted to rub his wrists, but Garak caught them between one hand. “Rope,” Garak said. Pete stepped forward, offering a coil. Garak made quick work with it, twisting Bashir’s arms so that his hands rested between his shoulder blades, binding them tightly together and then wrapping the rope around the chair and Bashir’s chest.

Bashir whimpered, much as he had when Garak had clamped the bracelets around his wrists. The first time, Odo had assumed the noise was one of distress, but now as Garak moved to bind Bashir’s ankles to the legs of the chair, Bashir’s whimpers became more disquieting. Was the doctor actually enjoying this?

Finished, Garak straightened and plucked a red handkerchief from Pete’s waistcoat pocket. This he stuffed in Bashir’s mouth like a garnish. “Perfect,” he said, arms akimbo as he appraised his handiwork. “Well, shall we celebrate?”

The barroom burst into merriment, bottles and glasses of amber alcohol swelling from the bar as the mustached lackey picked up the pace on his piano. Another outlaw joined him with a stubby wind instrument. More women in long dresses flowed in from upstairs to dance with several henchmen. Other outlaws sat with their drinks, clapping to the music and laughing. Garak took his place at the bar, back to Bashir, hat tilted back, and counted bills of green currency into piles.

By the time a third outlaw joined the burgeoning band with a guitar, half the men were drunk and Bashir was fighting hard in his bindings. Odo suspected that the women might be ladies of the evening; several lounged in the laps of the drunk outlaws. One tugged at Garak’s wrist, begging him to dance with her. After declining for the fourth time, Garak finally gave in and took her hand.

Bashir went still. Garak took the woman into his arms and began to move in what Odo recognized as a Cardassian dance step. Despite being a holographic woman of ancient Earth, his partner kept up, smiling and laughing as he twirled them around.

Bashir whimpered again. Like a wounded animal.

Around him, the outlaws cheered the spectacle.

With a flourish, Garak spun the woman in Bashir’s direction and she landed into his lap. Giggling, she ran her hands across Bashir’s chest. “Howdy, marshal,” she lilted, shimmying further into Bashir’s lap and blocking Odo's view. Her hands continued to rove and caress. "Oh, it's funny. I can tell he likes it, but there's no response down below."

The outlaws broke into laughter. Another woman approached, trying to coax Bashir with her attention. This they met with giggling and insults to the doctor's manhood.

Bashir spat out the gag. "Enough, Eli. This has gone far enough."

"Oh?" Garak called out. "My dears, it seems the good marshal does not find us amusing."

The room erupted in another round of jeering. Bashir drew himself up in his bonds. It was almost admirable. "This is between you and me, Mister Taylor."

"So it is."

"So would you rather deal with me on your own, or continue this sad charade?"

The outlaws were silent, their attention on Garak. He favored Bashir with another dangerous smile and bowed his head. "Everyone out." He paused to take a step toward Bashir. "And don't concern yourselves should you hear screaming."

Most filed out without protest; those that were more hesitant or drunk Garak fixed with a stare until soon everyone—outlaws and women—had hurried upstairs or out the front door.

Once they were alone, Garak splayed his hands. “My dear marshal, it seems you have me all to yourself at last." He tugged at his shirt cuffs, then pulled off his long black coat to fold it over the side of a chair. Bashir remained quiet, watching closely as Garak, now in his waistcoat, drew a six-shooter from the holster at his hip. "Now. Where were we?"

Bashir cleared his throat. "You were going to ransom me back to the U.S. Marshals."

"I was, yes. I think I've changed my mind." Garak drew closer, gun aimed at Bashir's chest. "I considered what you said about me not needing the money, and I must agree. I'd much rather keep you here." A hand's breadth away now, Garak grazed the pistol's barrel across Bashir’s jaw and down his neck. "Right here," Garak whispered, "tied up. Like this."

What game was this now?

Bashir gave a derisive snort. "My people will find me, Mister Taylor."

"Yes, but in how many pieces?"

"If you don't want money, then, I'll ask you again: what do you want from me? Information?"

Garak seemed to consider, tapping the barrel over Bashir’s collarbone, slipping it under the first button of his shirt. He popped it off and moved on to the next. Odo felt Bashir shiver. Didn’t the doctor realize that the safeties were on and that the threat was entirely empty?

“I want you right here.” Garak’s voice dropped in pitch. “I only wish I’d gotten you naked before tying you up.”

For one horrifying instant, Odo feared he’d have to stop a rape. But then Bashir’s arms shot out from the restraints. He punched Garak and shook out his hand, hissing in pain.

Garak rubbed his jaw and eyed Bashir with a tilt of the head. Bashir was scrambling to untie the ropes around his legs when Garak caught the lip of the chair with his boot and tipped it over, throwing Bashir onto his back. Bashir yelped.

“Really, marshal. What does this accomplish?”

Bashir clawed at the ropes, trying to wriggle free. “I thought I’d help. You can’t get me naked with these bloody ropes in the way, can you?”

Garak grunted and holstered his pistol. He ripped the ropes away with one hand. With the other, he grabbed Bashir by the belt buckle— _Odo’s_ buckle—and hauled Bashir up. It was an uncomfortable sensation, being pulled like that, and Odo was ready to shift and end this now until—

Well. Until Garak brought their bodies crashing together. What happened after that was speculation on Odo’s part, but he was certain that Garak kissed Bashir. On the mouth.

From there, they began to stumble around, tearing at each other’s clothes and bumping into tables, walls, the piano. It wasn’t until Odo heard Bashir’s hitching, panting breaths that he knew for sure: he hadn’t followed Bashir into a holosuite to stop a crime. Worse, the doctor was using the site for its intended purpose.

With _Garak._

This wasn’t the first time Odo had been caught in such a situation. Back in the lab on Bajor, when the researchers still considered Odo nothing but a globule of an unknown substance, it was strangely common for scientists and interns to use the lab for sexual activity. The table on which Odo’s jar sat was an especially popular location.

If Odo had been reluctant to risk drawing attention before, he was now strongly against it. Luckily, he assured himself, this wouldn’t last long. Eventually, he’d be thrown to the floor and ignored. That was typically how these liaisons went: clothes came off. Once discarded, neither man would notice Odo slink away. It was all a matter of waiting for the right opportunity.

Unfortunately, these two seemed to approach sexual relations the same way they conducted their conversations.

Garak had thrown Bashir against the bar, shattering bottles and glasses. Bashir fought against him, but Garak had his hips pinned. Uncorking a bottle of clear liquor, Garak poured it over the doctor and licked the rivulets trickling down the exposed skin of Bashir’s chest and stomach.

Bashir groaned and bucked against Garak. “Please,” he whimpered, “please take it off.”

Garak sunk his teeth into Bashir’s flesh so hard Odo would’ve winced. “Keep going,” he growled.

“Please, oh, please. I’m so bloody horny. Please. Need you. I’ve been so good. So good. Oh, fuck, I need you inside me. Please take it off, I’m begging—take it off and fuck me.”

Odo was aware of Garak’s hands groping Bashir’s ass as the doctor came undone. Evidently ready to move things along, Garak’s rough fingers settled on Odo.

Garak paused. “What a lovely belt.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Bashir gasped, half-laughing, “that you’d compliment your own gifts.”

“My gift?”

“Mhm.”

Odo could perceive the tilt of Garak’s head, the way he scrutinized Odo for far too long. “Ah, yes,” he said at last. “How _forgetful_ of me.” He ripped the belt from Bashir’s trousers.

_ Good, Garak. Now throw me on the floor, and you two can get on with your business, and I can be about my way. And try to forget this ever happened. _

“Bend over and grab the handlebar there,” Garak said.

Bashir obeyed, gripping the gold rail that circled the bar counter. Garak wrapped Odo around Bashir’s wrists and the railing and secured the buckle, binding them together. _Terrific._ This was exactly what he needed. Front row seats.

Odo’s new position as a prop gave him a view he’d rather never known existed. Garak dropped Bashir’s trousers and gently took the doctor’s genitals into his hand. “Release,” he said in Kardasi, and Bashir let out a gasping moan. Returning to Federation Standard, he said, “Better, my dear?”

“God, yes, thank you, sir.”

Garak tossed a device onto the bar counter. It took Odo a moment to recognize its circular shape: a Cardassian punishment device used on Bajoran males to prevent erections. Apparently, given the similar anatomy, it worked on humans as well. How had Garak procured such an item?

No, he didn’t want to know.

Soon they were frantically coupling, Garak gripping Bashir’s hips and grunting from the exertion. Bashir quickly descended into crying out and shouting nonsense. Garak had to hold his trembling body aloft. 

 _You’re a disgrace to your star, Bashir,_ Odo groused,  _letting a fugitive get the upper hand with hardly a fight._

It wasn’t entirely fair on the doctor. Odo had, after all, brought himself here, and this wasn't even the most perverse use of Quark's holosuites. And although Odo never wanted to be a literal accessory to their secret affair, he had to appreciate the diverse ways that solids showed affection for one another.

Eventually, both men sank to the floor and pulled apart, gasping for air. Garak pressed a kiss to Bashir's temple, then, taking his time, released Bashir’s wrists. He tossed Odo across the room.

When he was sure neither was paying attention, too absorbed in holding each other in the afterglow, Odo shifted into a mouse. He paused to glance at them over a furry gray shoulder.

Good for them. 

He scurried away.

* * *

From then on, when he spotted Ferengi dropping off missives to Doctor Bashir, Odo pretended not to notice.

It was a week later when he happened to pass Garak on the Promenade, going the opposite direction. “Garak,” he said with a curt nod.

Smiling, Garak bowed at the neck in his customary manner. Then he lifted an invisible hat. “Constable.”

Odo stopped and turned. Garak had already caught the attention of someone in the crowd and was engaged in conversation. He didn’t so much as glance back.

Odo nodded. “Hmph.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings for** mindfuckery and uses of holograms that would make Reginald Barclay uncomfortable.

It was a fitting punishment. Bashir was in a coma, and here he was, sewing bustle points into a gown that grew more hideous to him by the second.

All Garak knew was what circulated around the Promenade: a Lethean had attacked Bashir telepathically. The doctor was comatose, dying, while the Lethean was in Odo’s custody. Unharmed. All details past that were lying in the infirmary, out of Garak’s reach. And he couldn’t very well saunter in there and request an update, could he?  _Yes, Nurse, please keep me posted should his condition change. Commander Sisko, would you mind stepping aside so I may hold his hand?_

Garak chewed on the pins in his mouth. What was the last thing he’d said to Bashir? They’d been arguing about a detective program Bashir had written. Agatha Christie, he’d said the author’s name was. The doctor had cast himself as Poirot, and planned to leave Garak with the role of Hastings. “I’m  _not_ playing your dim-witted sidekick,” Garak had said, astonished Bashir had even proposed it.

“Hastings isn’t dim-witted,” Bashir had said with a patient smile as Garak flipped through the program parameters. “He’s brave, scrupulous—okay, perhaps a tad slow—but Poirot is very fond of him.” When that had done nothing to convince Garak, he’d tried compromising. “Would you rather be Inspector Japp?”

“What about this Countess—Vera Rossakoff?”

“The femme fatale? Garak, she’s a  _woman_ _.”_

“Then perhaps you should play her, and  _I’ll_  be this detective Poirot.”

Bashir’s brows had shot up. Then he’d tilted his head in an unconscious mimicry of Cardassian body language that Garak found all too charming. He was a profoundly bad influence on the doctor. Sadly, they’d have to tame that delightful quirk before someone took notice.

“If that’s what you want,” Bashir had said, batting his lashes and surprising Garak again by the depths he was willing to go. “I’ll be the best damned Vera Rossakoff. Just you wait and see.”

Plucking a pin from his mouth, Garak stabbed at the gown and shook his head at the memory, bright as yesterday. What nonsense. Their last words to each other were going to be utter nonsense.

He finished the gown, moved on to the next pile of alterations. Garak checked the time and sighed. Customers came and went; he snapped at those who dared interrupt his thoughts, then offered his deepest apologies when he caught himself. Was Bashir really the only competent doctor in that infirmary? The Promenade should be full of good news by now.

Pushing aside a blouse, Garak keyed up his terminal and ran a search on Letheans and their telepathic abilities. If the attack was ongoing, perhaps the link could be severed with a clean cut across the Lethean’s throat. None of the Federation officers would stomach such a solution, no matter how effective or deserved it might be. 

Ah, there: the screen filled with medical records and articles. Garak scanned through them, getting the gist.

The results were not encouraging.

Garak wasn’t aware he was gripping the seam ripper until the poor tool snapped in his hand. He threw it away and pulled a replacement from a drawer. It wouldn’t do to fret. This was out of his control.

Tearing into the seams of a jacket, Garak considered his scant options. He could stay here and wait for the final pronouncement to trickle down to him, or he could barge into the infirmary (if it wasn’t too late already) and give Bashir a vigorous shaking. Slap him awake. Thrash as Odo’s guards dragged him out. Vow revenge. Surely the good doctor would appreciate the melodrama of it. In some metaphysical sense.

Someone entered the shop. Garak didn’t bother looking; let the person putter around and leave unattended. It went against his customer service instincts, but he dismissed the silly twinge of guilt. He was entitled to be rude today.

The person cleared their throat.

Garak tossed the carcass of the jacket onto the workbench. “What?”

Dax seemed unperturbed. She smiled at him. Despite himself, Garak allowed a sliver of hope.

“I thought you might like to know,” she began, “I just got back from the infirmary. Julian’s awake. Still a little out of it, but they say he’ll make a full recovery.”

“When?”

“End of the day.”

Garak went for a subdued reaction that only hinted at what he felt. “Splendid.”

“And just in time for my surprise birthday party.” Dax turned to go, then hesitated. “Are you all right?”

Garak nodded. “Thank you for the good news, Lieutenant.”

Dax didn’t press the issue—one reason Garak liked her. "Are we still on?”

"After today, I think the good doctor could use something to help him unwind. Don't you agree?"

Dax smirked and left without another word.

Once she was gone, Garak collapsed back into his chair and released a long breath.

* * *

 _There he is._ At last.

When Bashir passed his dark crevice, Garak caught the doctor by the crook of the arm and reeled him in. Bashir breathed his name and collided into his chest as Garak brought their lips together. Fragile, but warm and alive: Bashir pressed back, tongue meeting his.

Presently, Bashir pulled away and chuckled into Garak’s shoulder.

Garak tilted his head. “What’s so funny?”

“Noth—well, I admit I was a tad miffed when I awoke and you were nowhere to be found.” Garak opened his mouth to protest, but Bashir plowed over him. “It’s quite all right. I know why you weren’t. I only hope if I should die, you actually show up to my funeral.”

“I’ll even bray to the sky like a Klingon, if you like.”

Bashir covered his mouth, shoulders shaking in laughter. When he asked how much Garak had heard about the telepathic attack, Garak admitted it was very little. Bashir gave him a quick rundown, explaining how the Lethean had rampaged through a Deep Space Nine that represented Bashir’s mind, destroying the station and murdering facets of Bashir’s personality, as embodied in Bashir’s various friends. Jadzia: his confidence. O’Brien: his doubt. Sisko: his professionalism. Bashir went on to describe having to repair the station while rapidly aging.

The human mind was a bizarre structure.

“I’ve noticed you’ve neglected to mention me,” Garak said. Even in the darkness, he caught Bashir’s grimace. “What did I personify? Your latent cynicism? Your razor-sharp wit? Your sexual prowess?”

“You—you weren’t there.”

 _Interesting_. What a curious lie! Garak wondered what could’ve prompted it. “Really, doctor? Not even as a representative of your handsome physique?”

“My handsome physique isn’t part of my personality. At least I hope I’m not _that_ shallow.”

“Ah. Should I be offended that your subconscious didn’t find me important enough to designate a role?”

It was entertaining, watching Bashir dance with his new interpretation of reality. “Oh, no, Garak. I wouldn’t put any stock in it. It could be that my subconscious simply couldn’t find a role for you appropriate to the situation.”

A decent save, even if Garak didn’t buy it. “Though it _did_ seem to find a place for Quark.”

Bashir’s eyes flashed panic. _Oh, doctor, you should’ve chosen a better lie. If you’d given me a nominal part, I might’ve not even caught on. Have you learned nothing from me?_

Garak took hold of his arm, opting to show mercy. “Regardless, my dear, I’m relieved you’re unharmed.”

“As am I,” said Bashir, relaxing. “I did some checking on Letheans. Their telepathic attacks are almost always fatal. I guess I was lucky.”

“Cardassians don’t believe in luck, doctor.” Garak gave his arm an affectionate rub. “You survived because you’re strong.”

Bashir scoffed. “One thing’s for sure, after experiencing life at the age of a hundred plus, turning thirty doesn’t seem so bad anymore.”

“Then you’ll be able to enjoy Dax’s party after all?”

“I won’t go that far, but I’ll try.” Bashir placed his palms on Garak’s chest. “Do you have something good planned for . . . afterward?”

“I happen to have a special program, yes.”

“Please promise me it isn’t the enigma tale.”

“This has a decidedly _different_ tone,” Garak said. “Though I do hope you’ll give the enigma tale a chance.”

“I will, I will. Just not on my damned thirtieth birthday. Especially after nearly being killed by a Lethean. You should’ve seen him, Garak. Ugly bugger.” Bashir rested his head on Garak’s shoulder and sighed. “I wish we could celebrate our milestones together.”

A heartfelt, touching sentiment. It stung.

“Oh?” Garak said. “And what milestones do _I_ have to look forward to?” He’d intended to sound amused, but the words were bitter in his ears. “My one thousandth customer? I can’t wait.”

Bashir drew back. “I’m—I’m sorry, Garak. I didn’t mean to rub it in.”

Garak shook his head. _What’s next, Elim? Snapping at children and the elderly, perhaps?_ “No, my dear, I should be the one apologizing. That was unfair of me. Enjoy your party. I’ll be waiting for you afterward.”

Bashir nodded and weaved their hands together. He kissed Garak’s knuckles. “I look forward to it.”

And then he was gone, leaving Garak alone in his dark, cold crevice.

* * *

 Julian had dreaded this day for the past year. “The slow march into middle-age,” he’d gravely explained to Garak. Now he was making the slow march to his quarters. He stopped before the door. On the other side, he could hear his friends whispering, the telltale mutterings of “he’s here” and “get down.” Squaring his shoulders, Julian plunged in.

Dax didn’t disappoint. She threw her arms around Julian with a yell of “Happy birthday!” as everyone burst from their hiding spots to shout, “Surprise!” Well, almost everyone. Odo stepped from behind a wall, arms crossed over his chest, and glowered.

 _I feel for you,_ Julian transmitted back in solidarity.

O’Brien slapped his shoulder, passed him a pint of ale. Julian took a sip and grinned his appreciation. Real alcohol. As Julian took in the streamers and balloons, he greeted the guests packed into his quarters.

From one wall hung a banner wishing him a happy birthday. Julian averted his eyes. Too late: flashes of memory warred in his mind—a Dabo girl singing and Garak beside him—

No. _Not_ Garak.

Two hours later, the cake was devoured and Julian was pushing the last straggler out the door. He took in the mess that was his quarters and shook his head. He was resigned to an evening of cleaning when he remembered with a warm thrill: Garak was waiting for him.

Julian hurried down the corridors, careful not to break into a run. The Lethean’s words echoed in his memory, taunting, mocking his career and his love life as a succession of close-but-no-cigars. “She could’ve been more if you’d tried a little harder,” the Lethean had said of Dax. “And the Cardassian—you could have what you want if you only pushed him. Pushed your closed-minded superiors.”

Julian had resisted. The Lethean might’ve been inside his mind, but he didn’t _understand_ him. “I’m quite content with the way things are progressing between Garak and I, thank you very much.”

And things _were_ progressing, even if it often seemed he wasn’t any closer to figuring Garak out.

“Content,” the Lethean had repeated with a sneer. “You’d rather give up than fight, wouldn’t you?”

Why had his subconscious cast Garak in the role of antagonist? Did he not trust Garak as much as he’d thought? Or was his mind not even to blame? Was it that the Lethean had picked the guise, chosen to conceal himself as the person Julian trusted most?

Maybe he was looking at it the wrong way. The others were part of his professional life, but Garak wasn’t a colleague. He was the private, the personal. And his relationship with Garak was certainly the most complicated, with him encompassing the role of friend, lover, confidante, mentor—

 _Oh, sod off,_ Julian told his mind. He was over-thinking this. Did it really matter?

It must, because he’d lied to Garak about it. Knowing how Garak enjoyed playing the villain in their fantasy programs (and Julian thrilled at Garak menacing him), Garak might’ve congratulated him for casting him into the role. But it was also likely that Garak, who always looked for reasons to keep Julian at an emotional arm’s length, might take it as a slight. Julian wasn’t about to hurt Garak. Especially over something this convoluted. 

Julian keyed in the code Quark supplied him and wrung his hands as the holosuite doors opened.

The inside was dark, turning pitch black as the doors closed behind him. Julian took two steps forward and stopped, unable to see past his nose. It was a disorienting sensation, like he couldn’t tell up from down. All he could hear was the thrum of Deep Space Nine’s life support systems and the steady in-and-out of his own breath. No grid was visible, so a program must’ve been running.

“Garak?” he called. His voice echoed.

There was a loud snap of machinery, and a spotlight lit up a circle five meters in front of him. From the ambient light, Julian perceived the outline of a stage.

A wiry, flamboyantly dressed Vulcan man stepped from the darkness and into the spotlight. “You! What are you doing here?”

Julian mentally recited what was now his mantra: _roll with it_. “I’m here for the show.”

The Vulcan looked Julian over. “Not dressed like that, you’re not.” He clapped his hands twice, as if summoning a waiter, extinguishing the spotlight and casting Julian back into the darkness.

An invisible hand tugged down the zipper of Julian’s jacket. Smiling, Julian reached forward to find its owner but grasped nothing but empty air. A second pair of hands grabbed him from behind, wrenching the jacket off and smacking him upside the head.

Julian glared into the darkness. “Hey!”

No response came. The first hand was moving to his trousers, unfastening with care while the second pair of hands yanked and pulled at his shirt. Julian fought against it. That earned him another cuff. 

Julian whirled, hoping to lay down a smack of his own, only to trip forward over his own trousers.

Two fingers pinched his earlobe and tugged hard. Julian stumbled and fell back into the soft cushions of a chair. More hands descended upon him, divesting him of his undershirt, boots, trousers, socks, and underwear until he was naked and shivering.

Julian gripped the armrests to rise up, but the jerk hands shoved him down.

Shackles snapped from the floor and captured his ankles in cold metal. Restraints circled around his waist and chest to hold him to the chair. A white light flicked on above, blinding him. Julian squinted as four more lights blazed down. He covered his eyes with clenched fists.

Then the familiarity hit him like an electric shock. The shackles, the lights—he’d read the reports in great detail. Fear coiled in his stomach. The interrogation program.

The lights swung and rotated ninety degrees to point toward a stage. Blinking until his eyes adjusted, Julian glanced around. Where he had once been standing on the stage, now he sat front row center in a theater. Unfamiliar architecture. The plush red seats surrounding him were empty.

There was a double clap again. The lights focused on the Vulcan man where he stood at the left-hand corner of the stage, reading a program. Without looking up, he said, “Are you comfortable?” His voice echoed, seeming to come from everywhere. The theater had impressive acoustics. 

Julian shifted in his seat. Despite being strapped down, the chair itself was soft— definitely not Cardassian in design. And, surprisingly, he still had use of his hands. Perhaps this wasn’t an interrogation after all. “Could I get one of those?” he asked, pointing to the leaflet.

The Vulcan raised a brow. “There was one on your seat.”

Julian glanced down. Indeed, he was sitting on it. He reached between his legs, drawing it out.

“Audience participation is not a requirement,” the Vulcan said, “however, it is supposed to increase enjoyment of the performance.” Without elaboration, he clapped again.

The house lights went dark, rendering the program unreadable. Two pink spotlights spun to settle on a spiral staircase on the stage. At the landing, a woman in a dress of sparkling violet stepped into view, legs lengthened on black pumps, auburn hair flowing over spotted shoulders.

Julian dropped the leaflet. “ _Jadzia?_ _”_

“Julian.” Dax favored him with a smile as she descended the staircase, fingers trailing along the railing in a caress. “I’m glad you could join us, but I’d like it better if you kept quiet.”

_Us?_

Garak’s voice answered from somewhere ahead, hidden in shadow. “I quite agree, Lieutenant.”

Before Julian could retort, the jerk hands reached from behind to stuff a ball-gag into his mouth and fasten it around his head, muffling his indignation.

Dax laughed as she circled down the staircase. The spotlight followed her until she stopped at the base of the stairs. She stood a mere meter from Julian, glittering and beautiful, bare shoulders flaunting the spots that trailed from her neck to disappear beneath her dress. Leaning forward as far as his restraints would allow, Julian watched, riveted.

“What do you think of the dress, Doctor?” Garak’s voice was closer now, near Dax. Even with his enhanced eyesight, Julian couldn’t so much as pick out Garak’s silhouette.

Julian pointed to the ball-gag.

“Oh, silly me. Never mind. Would you turn for him, my dear?”

Smirking, Dax spun slowly, arms out. As she moved, Garak narrated details about the dress: the fabric, its origins, the cut of this or that, the type of beading that caused it to glimmer. Julian barely heard any of it, his thoughts stumbling over themselves in an attempt to predict what Dax would do next. Do to _him_.

“I think he likes it,” Dax said.

“I’m afraid fashion is lost on that one.”

“Typical men. More interested in seeing you naked.”

“Of that I  _heartily_ agree.”

Julian nearly ripped out the gag. This was his  _birthday,_  dammit, not a roast!

“Well, we shouldn’t keep the birthday boy waiting,” Dax said and raised her hair. “I could use help with these buttons.”

“May I?”

“Please.” Dax’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’d like to see what these so-called ‘nimble fingers’ of yours can do.”

Julian felt his cheeks flush with heat.  _See if I ever tell you anything again!_

Garak only chuckled and a gray hand slipped into the circle of light, hesitated over the first button near Dax’s nape, and plucked it loose. His fingers lingered lower, tugging at the fastenings with a sensual delicacy Garak usually only reserved when prying away Julian’s own clothes. When the back of the dress fell halfway open, Garak’s index finger trailed a line over Dax’s exposed skin, tracing her spine up and down. She shivered.

Julian bit into the ball-gag as a thread of jealousy flared in the pit of his stomach. Yet his treacherous cock stirred.

Garak plucked at the buttons faster. The instant the last one popped open, Dax caught his wrist and fixed the shadows with a sidelong, heated look. “Are you done being coy? Because I’m more of the direct type.” Dax pulled on Garak’s wrist and set her jaw when he resisted. “Garak—”

There was a quick, unseen battle of wills before Dax said, “If that’s how you want to play it, fine. Computer: painstick.”

A prod-like Klingon device manifested above her hands. Dax held it with obvious familiarity and switched it on. Its tip flared a malevolent red.

“How odd, Lieutenant! I’m suddenly feeling  _quite_  cooperative.” Garak appeared. To compliment the purple of her dress, he wore a suit of dark lime green. He cocked his head. “If you’d put that away.”

For a moment, Julian thought she’d beat Garak with it anyway. “Computer,” Dax said, “remove painstick.” When it dematerialized out of existence, she grabbed Garak by the front of his tunic. “For now.”

Dax’s hands went to his ear ridges and drew their faces together.

Julian jolted. It was as if a disruptor had hit him square in the chest, and he was watching,  _feeling_ himself disintegrate in slow motion, molecule by molecule. He could do nothing but stare as the woman he’d once been obsessed with kissed Garak.  _His_ Garak. And, worse—so much worse—Garak kissed her back.

They’d stopped paying attention to him. Pulling down Dax’s dress, Garak unsnapped her brassiere with more deft movements and cupped her exposed breasts, rolling pink nipples between his fingers. Dax pinched and rubbed Garak’s neck ridges. All the while they explored each other’s mouths, and the noises they were making—even at his most aroused, Garak never moaned like that. Not with him.

Julian squirmed and cringed.  _Make it stop,_ he silently begged. Anger warred with disbelief warred with humiliation warred with confusion. He blinked away frustrated tears and hissed around the gag as Garak pushed Dax back into a table and hiked up her dress. Hooking a finger beneath her panties, Garak slid them down to her knees. And then his hand—

He couldn’t watch. Julian squeezed his eyes shut, but Dax’s cries sent shivers of arousal through him. Despite seeing the two of them entwined like that, he was fully hard.  _There’s something wrong with me._  Julian glared at his cock.  _This shouldn’t be turning me on._

Dax’s wails were muffled as she sucked on Garak’s neck ridge. As her hands went to his trousers, Julian felt a twinge of excitement in his stomach. Suddenly he understood why his hands remained free.

“My dear doctor,” he heard Garak say, “you could learn so much from her.”

Julian groaned. Taking hold of his cock, he began to stroke himself.

* * *

“That’s got to sting,” Dax said with a low whistle. This time, a grudging respect leaked into her voice. Beside her, Garak nodded once, as if to say, _that’s entirely the point._ Well, she could play that game. “My turn,” she said, taking the padd from his hands.

Garak relinquished it and took a sip of kanar. Together they sat encased in a bubble of shadow and silence in a hidden balcony overlooking the stage. From this vantage point, they could observe Julian’s reactions, noting every twitch and grimace.

Dax’s eyes snapped to the right-hand side of the datapad, where the readout suddenly spiked. “His heart rate—” she started, then looked up to find Garak already smiling. She followed Garak’s gaze and covered her mouth to keep from laughing. _Well, then_. It seemed Garak’s latest gamble had borne fruit after all—Julian had learned what to do with his hands. “Would it be inappropriate right now,” she said, “if we high-fived?”

They shared a quick, private smile. It had been touch-and-go for the first ten minutes, both of them at the edge of their seats. She could see the hint of tension in Garak’s shoulders easing off now; Dax easily guessed at his fears—that he’d misjudged, that his intuition had failed him and this was a line he never should have crossed, that Julian would never forgive him. Dax had felt the nervousness herself. After all, she’d played her own part, and had Julian’s friendship on the line.

It was a relief that the gamble appeared to be paying off. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“It was a marvelous touch,” Garak said, not taking his eyes off Julian, “that trick of calling up the computer.”

Dax took the compliment to heart. “We’re in a holosuite. Of course he’d suspect they’re holograms. It should suspend his disbelief, at least for a little while. Mind if I escalate things?”

“I surrender the reins to you, Lieutenant,” Garak said.

She’d warmed to the idea of playing puppeteer like this, overcoming her initial reservations. And although this was Garak’s brainchild, he’d complimented her during the planning about her proving to be quite devious. “In your own limited, Federation way, of course,” he’d added, making reference to what he probably considered silly constraints of safety and privacy. Yet he’d followed her stipulations to the letter. And she’d followed his, sharing the scene without befouling his plans or making the situation uncomfortable.

Dax had agreed to join Garak in this birthday surprise under the premise of keeping an eye on him. She wanted to monitor Garak, make sure nothing got out of hand, that Julian was kept safe. A good mindfuck would cause mental anguish within the scene, but not bleed into trauma.

Thankfully, there was no need for Dax to worry. Garak didn’t let even a dust mote of minutiae slip past him. Which, she supposed, was exactly his reason for inviting her along.

Dax had another reason for wanting to come along. Rarely did she cross paths with a dominant worth their salt, and Dax couldn’t pass up the opportunity to collaborate with someone who shared her interests. Even if that person happened to be a Cardassian spy.

“Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain,” Dax said as she tapped on the padd.

“Pardon me?”

Down below, Dax’s hologram followed her commands, kneeling before Garak’s simulacrum and yanking at the buttons of his pants with her teeth. Julian’s hand halted its movement and he stared, wide-eyed. Dax almost regretted not giving the man a chance; he was a highly responsive sub. _My loss, Garak’s gain, I guess._

“Don’t tell me Julian never introduced you to the Wizard of Oz,” Dax said.

“I’m sure I’d remember meeting anyone with such a title.”

She laughed. Her fingers grazed over the padd. “Never mind. I’ll explain later.”

Julian had returned to his lonely motions, his expression a mix of torment and arousal. On her cue, Garak’s hologram commented on the Dax hologram’s knowledge of Cardassian anatomy.

Her co-conspirator raised a brow ridge, but if Garak didn’t approve of her putting words in his mouth, he didn’t voice it. He held out a hand. When Dax passed over the padd, he took another swallow of kanar and seemed to calculate. Timing was everything, she knew. As Dax peered over his shoulder, he made slight adjustments to posture, limb placement, and technique.

“I can’t say my superiors would be pleased if they knew how I’ve been using my training,” Garak said offhandedly, filling the silence.

_I bet._

Garak had keyed in a dialogue option with his stylus. Dax felt her eyes widen as she read the text. She bit her lower lip and stared at him. “Are you sure about that?”

“Lieutenant, I’ve been plumbing the depths of the good doctor’s masochism for some time, and I have yet to find the bottom.” His tone didn’t hide his delight, and Dax only shook her head. Garak glanced between the stage and Julian, stylus hovering.

“He’s going to flip out,” Dax warned, more amused now.

She was sure Garak was counting on it.

* * *

It couldn’t be real. Intellectually, he knew that. But each of his senses insisted differently. On her knees, Jadzia Dax stroked the base of Garak’s cock, her mouth sucking and licking at the shaft. Julian squirmed and jerked his own cock at the sight, and whimpered when she nipped one of the swollen ridges, prompting Garak to groan. It should’ve been him. 

“What a talented mouth,” Garak said. His fingers were tangled in her hair, his hips rocking in time. “Such enthusiasm! Oh, Doctor, she’s really  _so_  much better at this than you.”

Julian winced as if he’d been slapped. It hurt worse than caning, worse than a paddle to the back of his thighs. He ripped out the ball-gag and shouted, “That’s not fair! She has three bloody centuries on me!”

Pulling away, Dax merely raised an elegant eyebrow in Julian’s direction. She rested her cheek against Garak’s pelvis. Her lips shined, wet with saliva and Garak’s lubricant. “And he wonders why I’d never date him.”

“Never mind his heckling, my dear,” Garak said, petting the back of Dax’s head affectionately. “After all, he’s only jealous.”

Julian hefted the ball-gag in his hand. Oh it was  _tempting_  to throw it at Garak’s head. Instead, he lowered his aim. The ball-gag bounced off Garak’s shoulder and rolled offstage.

Garak fixed him with a look that promised withering punishment in the immediate future.

Julian immediately regretted having thrown the gag. It did nothing to stop them from continuing on as if he hadn’t interrupted. And at least the ball-gag had muffled the noises he wanted to make.

This was wrong. It was his  _birthday_. Garak should’ve been showering him with gifts and massages and laving his cock with his tongue—not forcing him to watch as he shagged the woman he’d given up pursuing.

Dax grabbed Garak’s face for another obscene kiss and Julian had to bite his own hand to keep from exploding into the tantrum building in the pit of his stomach. The words  _get your hands off him!_  threatened to spill. Their noises echoed throughout the theater, bouncing and assaulting his ears.

_To hell with it._

It wasn’t his most eloquent thought, but as Garak shoved Dax back against the table, took her hips, and settled between her parted thighs, Julian didn’t care. His cock remained stiff, aching, unaffected by the turbulence inside him. Setting his teeth, he jerked himself roughly, glaring at the two traitors.

“Yeah, Garak,” Julian found himself growling, “fuck her for me. You like that, you sadistic bastard? Is she,  _ungh,_ tighter than me?”

Garak groaned. “ _Yesss_. Much tighter.”

That smell. The thick scent of sex and commingled pheromones. Julian sucked it in. It was like being held underwater. Any second it would let up, and he’d breathe—

Dax cried out in rhythm to Garak’s thrusting. The heels of her shoes dug into his hips, urging him on as she ordered, “Harder, harder!” She bucked upward. “He doesn’t deserve you. Look at him.” She cast Julian a disdainful glance. “Skirt-chaser.”

“Philanderer,” Garak spat in Kardasi.

“Womanizer.”

_“Lothario.”_

Julian whimpered. Tangled in their enthusiasm, Julian stroked himself faster, the rage burning away into desperate, primal need. The theater filled with their grunts and harsh breathing.

“Do you like this, Doctor?” One of Garak’s hands caressed Dax’s spotted thigh.

“Yes,” Julian found himself hissing back. With every pump of his cock, Garak telegraphed his message:  _I’m taking what_   _you’ll never have._  It hurt, but not nearly as much as the sight of Garak enjoying it. “Please, _yes,”_ Julian cried out.

Julian was close now. His eyes unfocused, and the sights and sounds seemed to fall away as the burn settled in his balls. So close. His humiliation wasn’t over; he hadn’t yet received permission.

“Garak,” he stammered. His face was hot with embarrassment. “Please, sir, I need to—sir, sir, may I please—”

“Finish your sentence, tiresome human.”

The words rushed out from him. “May I please come, sir?  _Please_ _?”_

“I’d never deny you, my dear,” Garak lied. “After me.”

It was another layer of torture, having to wait as Garak fucked Dax and she climaxed. The bastard was affecting a leisurely pace, watching Julian from the corner of his eye with a private smile. The burn was becoming painful now, but Julian didn’t dare stop jerking himself, not while under Garak’s gaze.

At last, Garak growled deep in his chest and in two slow pumps, went still. In four strokes, Julian followed after, climaxing with a shudder and a cry.

He lay back in the seat, shivering and panting.

While he’d been recovering, it seemed the theater had once again gone dark. Silent. The restraints around his waist, chest, and ankles popped open.

“Sir.” It was the Vulcan man, his voice coming from the left. “For you.”

A soft towel landed in Julian’s lap.

Languidly, Julian dragged the towel between his legs and over his chest. As his brain rebooted, he closed his eyes and laughed. He should probably have been feeling dirty right now, but the sensation of disgust didn’t manifest. It was as if he’d exorcised a demon. The ghost of his feelings for Dax, maybe. Either way, he felt strangely good.

Still.  _How am I ever going to look Dax in the eye again?_

Luckily he didn’t have long to mull that over before his surroundings shifted again.

* * *

The air sizzled as the theater shrank. The walls became wood paneling and a crackling fireplace. Julian’s seat adjusted into a rattan chair. Across from the fireplace sat a wide bed piled with a mountain of pillows.

Julian turned to glance out a window and smiled as he caught sight of white-covered hills and evergreen trees heavy with fresh snow. Cozy.

A gray hand plopped a glass of water on the table in front of him. Julian jumped. “Garak!”

“You must be thirsty, my dear. Drink up.”

Julian cast him a dirty look but brought the glass to his lips—

—and nearly dropped it into his lap as another Garak said, “How do you feel?”

Regaining his composure, Julian forced himself to take a sip of water and appear cool.

The second Garak sat across from him, hands clasped over the table, a smug smile on his lips.

“Much better,” Julian said, “now that you aren’t shagging one of my friends.”

This second Garak inclined his head. “Perhaps you’d have preferred a different friend.”

“No, certainly not!” Julian looked over at the first Garak, who was giving him an odd, expectant stare. “What?”

“Is there anything I can get you?”

Julian considered. Garak often sought to take care of his every need after a scene, but this Garak’s tone was overly polite. “A robe would be nice.”

“Of course! I’ll return in just a moment.”

The first Garak hurried off into another room, leaving Julian with the Garak giving him the sly, sidelong stare. “If Jadzia ever found out you were using her image like that—” Julian started.

“Do you intend to tell her?”

“Rest assured, I’m taking this one to my grave.” He was sure of that. No form of torture existed that could pry it out. “How did you even get her imaged without her noticing?”

A pair of hands clamped on Julian’s shoulders. “You assume I didn’t have her  _permission_ _,”_ a third Garak whispered in his ear.

Julian laughed it off. What a load of bollocks. “Do you honestly expect me to believe she’d agree to that?”

“Doctor, what you believe means  _nothing_ _.”_

“To you?” Julian spun and pointed to the second Garak. “Or you?”

“What you believe, dear Julian, is what makes the game interesting,” said the second Garak. 

Julian took a long drink of water. “So what’s next on the agenda? Are you two going to fuck each other and make me watch _that_ _?”_

The second Garak, who Julian was beginning to think of as Sly Garak, put a hand to his chest, eyes wide as if scandalized. The third Garak chuckled and ran a finger down Julian’s bare shoulder. “Is that a request?”

“I think I’ve had enough weirdness for one night, thank you.”

“Oh, but where’s your usual sense of adventure?” the third Garak purred, and Julian felt his cock twitch and harden. It was a struggle not to shiver into the hologram’s burning touch. “After all, the night is still so young.”

The first Garak returned, holding a maroon robe in one hand. With a flourish, he held it out. “I think I’ve found just your color, my dear.”

Julian stepped into the robe, slipping his arms into the sleeves. He tied the belt loosely and didn’t miss the third Garak appraising him with a hungry look. Dom Garak. That had to be his Garak, the real Garak.

 _Unless that’s what he wants me to think_. Julian glanced to Sly Garak, who was still sitting, the picture of false innocence.  _Maybe he’d pick a subtler guise, to throw me off._ Or maybe Garak was counting on Julian assuming exactly that.

_He’s probably hiding in a shadow somewhere, laughing at me._

The first Garak smoothed out Julian’s hair and tugged at the collar of the robe. “It suits you well, if I do say so.”

Julian looked the first Garak up and down. Passive. Eager to please. This must be Garak’s customer service face. How many more of Garak’s sides would appear in holographic form? He looked between the three. Each wore identical outfits of gray and white, heavily padded as if ready to brave the snow outside. “Will there be any more of you joining us?” he asked the open air. “Or is this it?”

“Three isn’t enough to satisfy, Doctor?” said Dom Garak. “You truly are a dirty slut.”

Julian shrugged. “Can you blame me?”

“My dear,” the deferential Garak interrupted, “may I get you anything else?”

“A massage would be brilliant,” Julian said. “To start.”

“Full body, or—”

“Yes, precisely. And, ah! My usual tea. And grapes. Not individual grapes, mind you. I want them in a bunch.”

Sly Garak raised a brow ridge at the last request, but he and Deferential Garak hurried off to complete the task, leaving Julian alone with Dom Garak, who circled around, caressing Julian’s bum through the robe’s thin fabric.

“Do you enjoy ordering me around, Doctor?” he said.

“He— _you_ —volunteered.” Julian smiled, adding, “And I  _could_  get used to it.”

Dom Garak sank his teeth into Julian’s shoulder, drawing a moan from Julian’s throat. “Enjoy it while it lasts. You’ll be back on your knees, begging me, soon enough.”

Julian arched, pressing the cleft of his bum against this Garak’s everted cock. Turning, Julian caught Garak’s neck and pulled him into a kiss. Rough lips brushed against his. “Until then,” he whispered, “you better get moving.”

That earned him a scowl.

Soon Julian lay facedown on a warm, padded massage table, naked, a towel covering his bum. Sly Garak massaged scented lotion into his upper torso with strong fingers while Deferential Garak worked knots out of his calves. Dom Garak paced back and forth, hands on his hips, looking like he’d much rather be flogging Julian than watching him indulge in a spa treatment.

 _Well, too bad,_ Julian thought. If he didn’t like it, he shouldn’t have created the program. _I wonder if I can get him to wank himself for me_. It was an appealing thought, but instead Julian raised his head and said, “Tea.”

Sly Garak’s hands stilled. He fetched the cup and saucer and waited until Julian was bracing himself on his elbows before passing it over. Julian took measured sips and suppressed a smile as Dom Garak twitched impatiently.

Julian handed the empty cup to Sly Garak, then fixed Dom Garak with the most smug grin he could muster. “I’m ready for those grapes, now.”

“Very well.” Dom Garak retrieved a bunch of red grapes from a bowl and moved to tear one off.

Julian stopped him with a raised hand. “No. Come here and hold it up for me.”

Dom Garak hesitated, then, to Julian’s glee, obeyed, lifting the grapes so they dangled within an inch of Julian’s face. Julian plucked a grape between his teeth and moaned as it burst into his mouth.  He felt the other two Garaks pause in their ministrations to watch.

Five grapes later, Dom Garak sighed. “Why am I doing this, Doctor?”

Julian chewed, swallowed. As he suspected, there didn’t seem to be a corollary in Cardassian culture. “It’s a common and very old trope within human media, having a servant feed you grapes. It demonstrates status. Power. Hedonism. If you’re interested, you can get naked and fan me with a fern leaf, too.”

Somewhere around the word ‘servant’ Dom Garak’s eyes had narrowed. He threw the grapes into the bowl. Behind Julian, Sly Garak chuckled, which only earned Dom Garak’s ire. “What do you find so amusing, idiot?”

Julian glared. “Hey, don’t be mean to him.”

“Ah, I see! You’d much rather I be subservient, is that it?”

Emboldened by the other two Garaks flanking him, Julian said, “I’d much rather you not be an arsehole.”

“It seems what you’d _like_ is to be bent over my knee and _spanked.”_

Sly Garak gently pressed him back into the table. “Shh, dear Julian. Ignore him. You’re undoing my good work.”

Nodding slowly, Julian lowered his head back into the rest, relaxing into the soothing press of fingers. In his periphery, he saw Dom Garak leave in a huff. “Did you play a masseuse in a past life, Garak?” he teased.

“Mhm. On Romulus. I was the personal massage therapist of the Cardassian ambassador. My abilities were so highly regarded, the Romulan dignitaries often requested my services as well.”

“I’m pleased to find the human muscle groups are quite similar,” Deferential Garak added as he rubbed the soles of Julian’s feet.

Julian hummed in pleasure. Even if the muscle groups hadn’t been similar, he was sure Garak would’ve done the appropriate research years ago to make up for the deficit. He rolled over onto his back. Sly Garak tsked lightly. Julian caught his wrist and pulled away the towel. “Did you learn any other techniques, by chance?” he asked with what he hoped was a sultry smile.

Sly Garak’s eyes settled on Julian’s erection, then returned to his face, only to flick down again. Warm fondness flooded Julian’s chest and his cock hardened further.

“Dear Julian,” Sly Garak sniffed, “that would’ve been  _unprofessional_ _.”_

“And we can’t have that, now can we?” Grinning, Julian guided the wrist downward.

“I think not!” Dom Garak said, storming back in with a raised finger. “He’s mine, and neither of you will touch him until I say so!”

Sly Garak gave Julian a sidelong glance. His hand pumped once along Julian’s length. “It seems I’m touching him right now.”

“Only with my permission, I assure you.” Dom Garak slapped the hand away. “Now step aside before I—”

“Boys, boys!” Julian couldn’t help but laugh at the madness of it. “Come on now, no fighting! There’s enough of me to go around.”

Sly Garak favored him with a brilliant smile.

That was all the encouragement he needed. Julian slid off the massage table and kissed him.

Sly Garak responded immediately, opening his mouth and greeting Julian’s tongue with a gentle flick of his own. Julian wasn’t used to Garak being this much of a tease—coy, almost passive—but today it was exactly what he needed. Julian took this Garak’s shoulders and nipped at the ridges along his chin, prompting a breathy sigh and a flicker of the eyelids. Definitely what he needed now.

Julian smirked as the excluded Garaks stared, watching him drag and shove Sly Garak to the bed, where he tore at his holographic bedmate’s clothes until he was naked and bucking underneath him. Julian peppered Sly Garak’s face with kisses, enjoying how he squirmed in obvious delight.

Crawling down, Julian pressed his face against Sly Garak’s genital slit. The surrounding scales darkened under his hot breath, and Julian inhaled that alien scent that sent tingles down his spine and went straight to his cock. Tongue darting out, Julian licked the small opening, coaxing it into dilating. Sly Garak gasped, breath hitching. Julian plunged his tongue deeper, licking at the tip of the sheathed cock. As it began to evert, he took it full into his mouth and swirled his tongue.

A shadow fell over him. Julian lifted his head to find Dom Garak looming over them. “Lower.”

Julian squashed his sudden irritation. “I’m sorry, sir?”

Dom Garak shoved Sly Garak’s knees back, toward his chest, exposing more of him. Then he grabbed Julian’s hair, forcing him down until Julian’s face pressed into the one part of Garak’s anatomy he’d never so intimately encountered. A twinge of uncertainty shot through him.

“What are you waiting for, Jules?” Dom Garak said. “Do you think I’m dirty?”

“No, sir.”

Dom Garak hissed in his ear, “Unworthy of your perfect tongue?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you must require a map!”

“No, sir!” Before Dom Garak could ridicule him further, Julian licked at Sly Garak’s hole. When his tentative laps were met with a moan and tilt of the hips, he pressed harder, dragging his teeth and probing with the tip of his tongue. Encouraged, Julian grasped Sly Garak’s legs and thrust his tongue in deep, withdrew, and thrust again.

To Julian’s delight, Sly Garak’s thighs trembled. Releasing a puff of air, he whispered, “ _More_ _.”_

Julian wasn’t about to deny him. He gave Sly Garak’s fully everted cock two slow pumps, coating his fingers in clear lubricant and drawing away before Garak could thrust into his hand. He ducked down to gently press a slicked finger inside. He wiggled the finger to the second knuckle, then added another, aware of every twitch and sigh it elicited. Garak was gorgeous like this: pliant, allowing himself to be stretched. Julian considered keeping the sentiment to himself, then said, “You’re gorgeous.”

Sly Garak chuckled breathlessly. “Oh, dear. They must’ve revised the definition of the word without my notice.”

Julian smiled, pushing in further and curling his fingers. Inside, Garak was smooth and enticingly warm. He pressed gently on Sly Garak’s belly as he twisted his fingers. It took all his self-control to go slow. The thought of being inside Garak, fucking Garak into the mattress, was enough to nearly do him in. “I’m serious,” he murmured.

“In our present state,” Sly Garak said, “I trust,  _oh,_  nothing you,  _ah_ _,_ say.”

“Dear Garak, you seem rather trusting to me.”

“You may be _—mhm_ —right. Oh, yes! Deeper, yes, please!”

The sound of that silky voice begging him made Julian’s cock twitch. “Do you want me, dear Garak?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Julian withdrew his fingers. “Now, now, what are you always saying about patience?” When the Garak beneath him only groaned and shook his head, Julian rubbed the tip of his cock against his ready hole and leaned down to kiss him. Sly Garak wrapped him in his arms and legs, kissing and nibbling, pressing that thick, ridged cock against Julian’s belly.

The scales across his body had gone charcoal with lust, his eyes glazed over, and Julian wanted so badly to take him. His every reaction seemed perfectly tuned to drive Julian wild. “Tell me how bad you want me,” Julian whispered into the curve of his ear.

Sharp pain radiated from Julian’s scalp as Dom Garak caught a fistful of his hair and yanked him backward, off Sly Garak and to the head of the bed. Julian yelped and tried to resist, but as usual the grip held steady. “That’s about enough,” Dom Garak said.

“But it’s my birthday,” Julian whined, arms outstretched as he tried to reach for the other Garak.

“That’s no excuse for your lack of restraint.”  

“But—” Julian cried out as Dom Garak pulled harder. Tears stung his eyes. The earlier anger sparked into a flame at how Garak had so easily slapped him down, put him back in his place. He’d been so damn  _close_. Julian tried to pry Dom Garak’s fingers from his hair, thrashed, howled, and cursed. “Ow! This isn’t fair! Garak, let go!”

“If you don’t stop this tantrum, you’ll spend the rest of your birthday in the corner.”

That called for a different tact. Julian pressed both his hands together, beseeching, as he looked Dom Garak in the eye. “Please, sir, I’m sorry.”

“Oh? For what?”

Julian glanced across the bed. Sly Garak was watching the exchange with obvious interest, stroking himself slowly. Deferential Garak stood at the foot of the bed, expression impassive as he waited to be called to action. Julian returned his attention to Dom Garak. “For being impatient.”

“And?”

 _What else does he bloody well want from me?_  Julian scoured his memory for possible digressions, drew a blank.

That sigh again. “What are you always forgetting, Jules?”

“To ask permission,” Julian said with a wince, bowing his head.

Dom Garak gave an indulgent nod and patted Julian’s cheek with his free hand. “Exactly, my obtuse pupil. Really, I can’t fathom how Starfleet must train its officers. You’re horribly undisciplined. One of your  _many_  deficits.”

“It’s not my fault you never set any parameters!”

The next pat on Julian’s cheek was harder, a threatened slap. “When in doubt, always aim for subservience. You should know by now that the only pleasure you receive is what I grant you.” Releasing Julian’s hair, Dom Garak glanced to Deferential Garak, who immediately moved to the side of the bed opposite Dom Garak. “Hands and knees, Jules.”

Julian obeyed, getting into position with his bum facing Dom Garak. He stared straight ahead at Deferential Garak, who’d knelt on the bed, his crotch inches from Julian’s face.

“I won’t require you to count the blows this time,” Dom Garak said, “as your mouth will be—how should I put this?  _Occupied_ _._ Do you catch my meaning, boy?”

“Yes, sir.” Julian unfastened Deferential Garak’s trousers to draw out his everted cock.

“For every noise of pain he makes,” Dom Garak continued, “I’ll add ten more strikes.”

The blows started the moment Julian took the cock into his mouth. Stinging spanks landed randomly across his bum as a warm-up. Julian hummed around Deferential Garak’s cock, arching into each slap. As the spanks grew harder, Julian sucked harder as well, drawing his teeth in to keep from biting down. The sooner Dom Garak was satisfied with his punishment, the sooner Julian could claim his prize.

Dom Garak paused to shake out his arm. Julian used the respite to search for Sly Garak. He almost choked on his mouthful when he caught sight of Sly Garak on his knees, one hand reaching behind himself while his hard, wet cock saluted. Julian’s eyes zeroed in on the slim, purple dildo jutting between his legs.

_Bugger me. Goddamn cocktease._

Noticing he was being watched, Sly Garak smiled and turned his back to Julian, gracing him with a stunning view of round buttocks. The dildo poked out, an invitation Julian wished he could accept.

Sly Garak pursed his lips. Oh, that was positively cruel.

If Dom Garak noticed Sly Garak’s display, he didn’t acknowledge it. “To thirty,” he said from behind Julian. It was the only warning before he brought a rod across Julian’s left arsecheek, snapping Julian back to attention. “One.”

By ten, the pain was radiating down Julian’s legs and sending jolts to his erection. He could’ve easily handled it if he could let himself fly into his delightful dreamland, but not with his mind occupied on sucking off Deferential Garak. It took all his focus to keep his mouth slack and not bite down as Deferential Garak thrust in rhythm to each stroke of the rod. It kept him grounded in his body, in the pain.

At twenty-five, Julian felt the welts rising over his skin, but took heart; it would be over soon.

At twenty-six, Deferential Garak hissed and flinched.

Julian’s heart plummeted. He’d been careful to keep his teeth in check. There was no way he’d slipped up. Unless—

_No, he wouldn’t._

But of course he would. Drawing back, Julian caught Deferential Garak’s eye and noticed the flicker of a smirk cross his lips.  _Well played, arsehole_. This had to be the real Garak, what with the breaking of character and putting himself in arguably the best position of the three

Dom Garak tapped the rod against Julian’s backside. “I’m disappointed in you, Jules.”

“It wasn’t me! He’s faking it!”

That had been the wrong response. Dom Garak’s tone turned dangerous. “Are you calling me a liar?”

What a question! Julian caught himself before he could shout, _You’re damned right I am!_ That would earn him nothing but more strikes. Containing his indignation, Julian shook his head and assumed his most subservient tone. “No, sir. Never. I’m sorry, I was clumsy and hurt him. Please—please, sir, punish me.”

Dom Garak’s fingernails grazed over the welts over Julian’s bum, making him gasp. “Ten for your sloppiness, and an extra five for your outburst.”

With a sullen nod, Julian got back into position. He grabbed the base of Deferential Garak’s cock and sucked, wincing as the blows from the rod began with renewed vigor. He struggled to breathe through the pain and swirl his tongue and stimulate the ridges the way Garak liked.  _I should’ve strategized,_ Julian thought as the thirty-third whack sent him reeling forward and nearly clenching his teeth.  _I should’ve tried to get him off as fast as possible. Then again, knowing Garak, he’d order another hologram to pick up the torch._

By stroke thirty-seven, he could feel the sob building in his chest. Serendipity: Deferential Garak buried his fingers in Julian’s hair and, with one last thrust, came into Julian’s mouth. Julian swallowed with a moan just as the next blow fell. The moment Deferential Garak withdrew, the dam inside Julian burst. He howled and cried out, fisting the bedsheets with each blow.

At forty-five, Dom Garak gave his bum a pat of finality and brought the rod around for Julian to kiss.

“T-Thank you, sir,” Julian whispered as his lips brushed lacquered wood.

“You’re quite welcome, Jules.”

Swaying, he crumpled to the bed. He panted, struggling to catch his breath through the searing pain. Wiping tears from his face, Julian smiled as he found Sly Garak nuzzling against his chest, planting kisses against his sweaty skin.

“Well done,” Sly Garak said. “Well done.”

Julian snuggled close and wrapped his arms around those broad shoulders.  _I’m so lucky,_ he thought with a deep, contented sigh.

He was coming down from the high when Dom Garak caught his wrist and jerked him up. Julian glared, about to snarl to be left alone to his cuddling  _for god’s sake_ _._ Then he caught sight of the silk rope. His heart leaped and he couldn’t contain the sudden grin spreading across his face.

The rope circled his right wrist; Dom Garak tied it to the bedpost, then ran the rope underneath the bed to repeat the process with his right wrist. Deferential Garak did the same with Julian’s ankles until he was thoroughly, blessedly, spread-eagled.

For a moment, all three Garaks appraised his bound state with identical quirked heads and enigmatic smiles. Julian blushed under the combined attention of those incisive blue eyes.

Dom Garak broke away first to attach alligator clamps to Julian’s nipples. Deferential Garak’s fingers slid between Julian’s parted arsecheeks to gently lube his hole and slip a wide plug inside. Hovering in the periphery, Sly Garak flicked his nipple clamps and bit his inner thighs. Julian groaned under the blissful sensations, arching as far as his bonds would allow. “Yes,” he murmured, “so lucky.”

“You’re about to find out how lucky, Doctor,” Dom Garak said, pressing a kiss to Julian’s temple.

“Hmm?” Julian noticed movement—Deferential Garak was rubbing lube between his gray palms. He nudged Sly Garak away and, kneeling, stroked Julian’s erection, coating him in wet heat.

About bloody time! He thrust frantically into the firm grip. “Oh, yes, sir, please, god. Feels so good. More, please!”

Dom Garak tsked. “Such wanton creatures, humans.”

Julian whined as the hand withdrew. Sly Garak straddled his hips and, smirking, brushed the cleft of his bum against Julian’s cock. Julian was sure his eyes must’ve bugged out of his skull at the sight. Gripping the dildo wedged inside himself, Sly Garak rocked his hips. It was a serpentine undulation that left Julian slack-jawed and aching with need. If seeing Garak fuck Dax hadn’t yet broken his mind, this surely might.

Julian clenched and unclenched his fists, wishing he could caress and lick those dark scales. So close. He looked over to Dom Garak, who was fixing him with an expectant stare. Julian wet his lips. “Sir, may I please fuck you?”

Dom Garak favored him with a genuine smile and nodded. “You may, my dear.”

Deferential Garak bowed deep. “Use me however you wish.”

In his lap, Sly Garak splayed his hands and grinned. “It seems unanimous.” Leaning forward, he kissed Julian roughly.

Julian leaned into the kiss, tongue meeting tongue, desperate to get as much contact between their bodies as possible. Dimly, he was aware of Sly Garak pulling the dildo out of himself and repositioning his thighs. Julian swallowed and held his breath as Sly Garak broke the kiss, took the base of his cock and lowered himself down.

“Oh,” Julian whispered, dumbstruck as his cock sank into Sly Garak inch by inch, swallowed into tight heat. He stared at the point of their joining, unable to look away. Just the sight threatened to push him over the edge. Julian curled his toes and closed his eyes as Garak took his entire length.

Once he was fully inside, Sly Garak went still, adjusting. Julian forced himself to breathe, to not focus on the hot, enveloping perfection. Then Garak clenched his muscles and Julian couldn’t help the startled moan that escaped. If it felt this good already, Julian didn’t stand a chance of lasting once they started moving.

As if sensing his thoughts, Sly Garak leaned forward again. His hands went to Julian’s throat. His mouth tickled Julian’s ear. “Now that you’ve earned the right to fuck me,” he hissed, applying pressure to Julian’s throat, “you better make it good, Jules, or it’ll be back to masturbating in the corner for you.”

Julian froze at the words, at the voice. The hands threatening to choke him sent fear coiling in his stomach as his mind snapped together. “Garak,” he wheezed.

Garak sat up, predatory smile going smug. “Very good, doctor. I’d give you a prize, but—well, I’m afraid I’m all I have to offer.”

“Garak,” he repeated. Oh, god, he was inside Garak. Garak was letting Julian fuck him. Right now. _Garak._

The orgasm blindsided him. He tossed his head back and keened as he came in spasming bursts before falling back into the pillows.

As the exquisite rush settled, Julian noticed the silence. Opening his eyes, he found Garak on his lap, smug smile frozen in place.

Julian flinched in horror. “Oh, fuck, I’m sorry, sir. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s quite all right, my dear. No need to concern yourself. You see, I anticipated that tonight you might be on a hair trigger and took necessary precautions.”

Julian lowered his lids. Now that he’d climaxed, he could fully appreciate the view. “Did you now.”

“I did. If you’d just stay where you are, I’ll find our remedy.”

Rolling his eyes, Julian watched as Garak dug through the pillows propping him up. In his state of partial tumescence, every one of Garak’s movements reverberated through him. Eventually he heard Garak whisper, “Ah, here we are!” and press cold metal to Julian’s neck. There was a hiss of compressed air.

“What the hell, Garak! Did you just drug me?”

Garak twiddled the hypospray between gray fingers. “But of course. What else would you have me do? Attach support posts to your member like some sort of plant?”

“Or wait until I get hard again, that’s what!”

“How inconsiderate of you. And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

“Garak! I don’t have time for this! Show me what was in that hypospray this instant!”

“Very well. You _are_ the doctor.” Garak held the hypospray out for inspection.

Julian squinted. It was a vasodilator, commonly used among Klingons. “Good lord, Garak. Are you trying to give me a priapism?”

“I was assured the chances of that were unlikely.” Garak’s eyes lit up and he sat up straighter. “Oh, I do believe it’s working! Good job, my dear. Keep it up.”

“So to speak,” Julian mumbled.

Garak rocked his hips, stirring Julian’s cock into full hardness inside him. Placing both hands on Julian’s chest, Garak began to ride, thighs flexing as he lifted himself up and down. His eyes fluttered closed. Julian couldn’t help but grin like a dolt at the glorious sight of it.

“Oh, yes, that’s _much_ better. I must say, doctor, I was quite impressed with how you handled yourself tonight. You even recognized me immediately.”

Julian groaned as Garak slammed down on his pelvis. “I, uhm, _ah,_ wouldn’t go that far.”

“You give yourself far too little credit. I saw the recognition in your eyes. You mustn’t second-guess yourself. Your first instinct is often right.”

“Garak.” Julian chewed his lower lip to keep from howling. “Are you normally this, uh, chatty while you’re getting stuffed?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Because?”

“Embarrassed as I am to admit it, I’ve never done this before.”

Julian blinked, stymied. “You mean—”

“You could call this virgin territory.”

How was that even possible? Julian shook his head in disbelief, then felt a swell of pride. It said a lot, that Garak would trust him enough with something as sensitive as his first—

Then Julian caught the mischievous glint in Garak’s eyes. His lips formed a thin line. “You’re having me on.”

Garak inclined his head in assent. “And your continued gullibility only reinforces my point. Despite all the evidence pointing to my lack of virtue, you chose to trust me on my word. Foolish of you.”

_I definitely need to fuck this man into incoherence._

“Much as I enjoy your,  _mhm_ , lessons in cynicism, Garak, I’m rather more interested in other things right now. And I can’t properly do that while tied down like this. Mind cutting me loose?”

“A fair point. Perhaps this isn’t the time for stimulating discussion.”

Before Julian could yell at him to get on with it, Garak was rooting through the pillows again, tossing them aside until he uncovered a switchblade. He made short work of the left bindings, then cut through the right’s.

Freed, Julian sat up and pulled Garak into his arms, kissing him over and over until they were breathless. He licked and bit on the ridges framing his eyes, down to those along his ears and jawline. Julian reserved the hardest bites for Garak’s neck, sinking his teeth into the tough scales and thrusting upward, drawing out satisfying little growls. When Garak tweaked his nipple clamps in retaliation, Julian groaned. “Oh, sir, yes,  _oh,_  you’re  _so_  good. So good. I don’t—don’t deserve this.”

Garak smirked and leaned back. Blade out, he twisted and severed the ropes around Julian’s ankles. Julian drew his legs up and together they found a fast and brutal rhythm, clinging, breath ragged in each other’s ears. Garak rode him hard, fucking himself on Julian’s cock until Julian was sure he was seeing stars. It was perfect. The closeness, the heat, having Garak in his arms like this—but he needed—he needed—

Julian hugged Garak’s waist and, calling on his enhanced strength, flipped him onto his back.

Alarm flashed across Garak’s eyes, so fast Julian almost missed it. It gave way to wariness. Even after he schooled his expression, the tension in his body remained. But Julian had no intention of usurping Garak’s control. Before Garak could reassert his dominance, Julian stroked his face, staring into his eyes with reverence. “May I make love to you like this, sir? I know I can’t please you the way you deserve, but I’d like to try. Even if only once.”

Garak’s eyes widened fractionally—whether from Julian’s phrasing, or his subservience, he couldn’t tell. His eyes fell closed again, and Julian felt the muscles around him relax as a pair of hands slapped his welted bum. Taking the cue, Julian moved, pressed chest to chest, focused on driving his cock deep and finding Garak’s every source of pleasure. “Oh, yes,” he murmured with each languid thrust. “Oh, Elim. _Elim.”_

He must’ve found the wrong angle; Garak arched back and hissed between clenched teeth as if in pain. Julian stilled. “Garak! Did I hurt you?”

Suddenly the tip of the switchblade was at his throat. “Did I tell you to stop?” Garak snarled.

“No, sir.” With a shiver, Julian redoubled his efforts until Garak’s grip on the knife loosened and he writhed again, wincing and hissing. Julian frowned but kept pumping, watching the reactions with a mixture of worry and scientific interest.

A sharp cry escaped between Garak’s teeth and he shuddered. Julian gaped as the scales along his body lightened several shades, then flashed black again. When Garak shuddered again, the scales repeated the color change.

With a satisfied gasp, Garak looked up at him, heavy-lidded and smiling.

Julian glanced down to Garak’s cock. It was still hard and dripping lubricant. “Did you just—”

“Twice.”

Julian laughed, full of pride and a smidgen of envy. Another entry in the sexual response of the Cardassian male. “How many—”

Garak made a grand gesture toward the ceiling. “The sky’s the limit.”

* * *

Julian made it his mission to put that to the test, taking breaks only to guzzle down glasses of water and lather more lubricant along his cock.

He discovered that Garak made the most noise when bent over the bed, or flat on his stomach, and that his reaction to each building orgasm differed depending on how Julian’s cock hit his sweet spots. When he took Garak from the side, Julian especially relished the little smirks Garak would shoot over his shoulder.

But Garak got downright frisky when fucked against a wall. He’d claw and fight against Julian, riding his cock almost angrily. It was like that, pressing Garak’s spine into the cabin’s wood paneling, that Julian grabbed the slick erection and jerked it in his fist. Garak squirmed and came with a strangled cry, coating them both with semen. The rapidly clenching muscles drove Julian wild; he pleaded and begged Garak for release until he received it, and, howling, spilled himself deep inside.

After stumbling back to the bed, Julian licked Garak clean and toweled himself off before throwing the covers over them. As their breathing returned to normal, Julian curled in front of Garak to watch the fire crackle and spit sparks.

“Where’d you get this setting?” Julian asked. “It looks like Earth.”

“It is.” Garak yawned and covered his mouth. “Excuse me. Missus O’Brien came by the shop to have a dress mended. Evidently she’d been fighting with the chief over some trivial matter.”

Julian nodded and smiled as Garak’s speech became more slurred with sleep.

“We got on the subject of romance and courting, and she mentioned that she enjoys romantic fiction to lighten her mood.” Another yawn, this time without an apology. “Well, I was quite intrigued. I thought perhaps she’d have better taste in literature than you.”

“No such luck?”

Garak only dignified that with a grunt.

“Serves you right for getting reading recommendations from someone else,” Julian teased. “A plague of heaving bosoms on both your houses.”

When Garak didn’t respond, he turned to find him on the cusp of sleep.

“Thank you,” Julian whispered, kissing his jaw, then hesitated.  _Just say it, coward. He’s nearly unconscious anyway._ “I love you.”

Julian’s stomach fluttered as Garak smiled and threw a heavy arm over his waist. “My favorite,” he slurred, and fell into a dead sleep.

Julian puzzled over that for the next hour, his mind whirling and refusing to shut down until it had unraveled the mystery. He analyzed all possible permutations of meaning, finding the options unsatisfying.  _It doesn’t make sense because it was meaningless,_ he told himself. _O _nly sleep talking.__

He was drifting asleep when the answer resolved itself.

_My favorite lie._


	10. Chapter 10

Julian was making his way across the Promenade, ready to head back to the infirmary, when Kira called his name. He turned and together they discussed the Yalosian ambassador and the necessary measures to be taken in preparing for the delegation’s arrival.

Julian was about to let Kira in on a fascinating tidbit about Yalosian aural acuity when there was a flash and an explosion from below. They rushed to the railing to find black smoke billowing out from the lower level. 

Julian tapped his combadge. “Julian to infirmary. Medical emergency on the Promenade.” He squinted, trying to pinpoint the source of the blast. His heart stuttered as he realized. “It's Garak’s shop.”

Instincts kicking in, he nearly jumped down the steps in his haste to get to the lower level. Kira was on his heels. The crowd scattered, frantic as people tried to escape. With an explosion that violent, in one of the station’s most crowded areas, there would be injuries. But truth be told, as he ran into the burnt out, flaming husk of the shop, he had only one objective in mind. 

Through the smoke, Julian spotted Garak lying in the rubble. Rushing to his side, Julian’s hands went to his shoulders. “Garak! Garak, are you all right?”

To Julian’s relief, he seemed dazed by the blast, but not seriously injured. “As well as could be expected,” Garak said. With his help, Garak managed to sit up and take in the destruction. 

“Was there anyone else in here?” Kira called out.

Julian couldn’t help but gently probe at the red gashes over Garak’s face. If only he had his med-kit with him.

Garak batted his hands away. “Thankfully, no.”

“If you think you can stand,” Julian said, “let’s get you to the infirmary. And that’s not a suggestion. We’re going.”

Garak shot him a scowl, but rose, gingerly, in acquiescence. That was a first. Julian squashed the knee-jerk urge to pester Garak with questions about the explosion. Was it just a simple accident, or could it have been deliberate? No. _Get him to safety and heal the damage first. Then focus on unraveling the cause._

Once they were in the infirmary, Julian had Garak sit on a biobed while he began scans with his medical tricorder.

Garak eyed the tricorder with obvious wariness. “Is there _anyone else_  available to perform this task, Doctor?”

Julian glanced around and caught sight of a nurse within earshot. Ah. Back to playacting animosity it was, then. “You’re entitled to request a different doctor, Garak. But I respect my team too much to foist you on any one of them. So if you don’t like me, you’ll just have to deal with it.”

“I don’t recall your bedside manner being this unpleasant.”

“You bring out the worst in everyone,” Julian said distractedly. His heart wasn’t in it. In the corner of his eye, he noticed the nurse move into another section of the infirmary. Snapping the tricorder shut, he picked up a dermal regenerator. Gently, he took Garak’s face in his hand and brought it to the injured scales.

As he ran the regenerator over Garak's cheek, he felt the sobering effect of the situation. “You were lucky you weren't seriously injured,” he said, squeezing Garak's jaw, fully aware that Garak had spoken a similar note of relief for him only recently. “But Cardassians don't believe in luck, do they?”

Garak favored him with an indulgent smile and looked ready to reply when the doors hissed open. Odo and Commander Sisko approached the biobed while two security officers stood guard at the door. Julian continued to work, though he eyed the guards with dread. Was that a security detail? Why?

The reason for their presence became clear as Commander Sisko relayed their suspicions that the blast hadn’t been an accident at all, confirming Julian’s worst fear. It had been a deliberate attempt on Garak's life.

A bomb.  _A bomb._

Garak carried on blithely, pretending he couldn’t fathom who would ever wish him harm as he named potential culprits. Julian focused on keeping his hands steady, on repairing the cuts, and not on how he wanted to grab Garak by the shoulders and shake him.

“And of course,” Garak said, “there’s always Major Kira.”

“This is serious, Garak,” Julian snapped, unable to keep the concern from his voice.  _Take it seriously, please._

Garak did no such thing, the irreverent git. Instead, he prevaricated until both Sisko and Odo gave up. They had no choice but to take what little he’d given them at face value and continue the investigation. Together, they left the infirmary, leaving the security detail behind.

Julian thumbed off the regenerator and, sighing, handed Garak a mirror. “Why is it that some people can't bring themselves to trust anyone, even when it's in their best interest?”

“Why is it,” Garak fired back, “that no one ever believes me, even when I’m telling the truth?”

Despite himself, Julian laughed. The truth. Better not to take  _that_ bait. Instead he said, “Have you ever heard the story of  _The_   _Boy Who Cried Wolf_ _?”_

* * *

Garak inspected the remains of the shop as if it were someone else's, as if he hadn’t wasted years toiling away at that uncomfortable workbench with those tools that cramped his fingers. Now it was nothing more than slag and debris. Meaningless trash, most of it no longer recognizable. 

When Garak had built and affixed the explosive device, it had been a thrill to exercise his atrophying skills. He hadn’t known what to expect beyond accomplishing his short-term goal of diverting the Flaxian and gaining the constable’s attention. He'd missed that uncertainty, the kind that went beyond the tedious will-they-or-won't-they of a hesitant customer mulling over a purchase. There was a good chance that he’d only delayed the inevitable, however, and that there’d soon be another attempt on his life—one he wouldn’t catch in time.

The possibility didn’t disturb him nearly as much as it should. He didn’t have a death wish, but—

 _I’m finished with this shop._  Garak kicked aside a charred bit of flotsam with the side of his boot.  _I’m finished with this station._

A throwaway thought, best ignored.

It was like a loose thread. It wanted to be pulled.

Perhaps he’d had enough with this quiet life. It chafed; he missed serving Cardassia the way he was meant to. While the station offered protection amid the scowls and empty threats, perhaps it was time for a change of address, to take his chances in open space. There was a certain romance in his solitary existence, living in disgrace, but this was the opportunity he was waiting for. 

He’d reinvented himself many times before. It was time again. With the shop gone, there was nothing left to hold him here.

There was a loud  _crunch_. He glanced up. 

“Garak?” Julian called out as he plodded through the debris.

Well, perhaps not nothing. 

“Doctor.” Garak stifled a sigh. Julian enjoyed defying his every wish and dressing it up as medical concern, didn't he?

“The computer said you were here. Are you all right? Scratch that, of course you're not. Somebody's trying to kill you. I heard about the Flaxian's ship.”

“Did you, now?”

“Dax filled me in, since nobody thought to invite me to the briefing. The Romulans. Bloody hell. Look at this place. Why would the Romulans be trying to kill you?”

“My dear, I'll tell you the same thing I told Commander Sisko: I have no idea.”

Glass and plastic snapped under Julian's boots as he closed in. He looked Garak over first with that doctor’s scrutiny, likely making note of all the signs of fatigue from lack of sleep. Then Julian’s expression softened. Garak liked that even less. His eyes gleamed in the darkness with a familiar pleading, the same he used when begging on his knees. Garak steeled himself, but his body was conditioned to respond to Julian's every twitch and expression, and that was one of them. _I can only pray he doesn't realize that little weakness._

 _Tell me,_  Julian's eyes said.

For once, Garak wished there was something to tell. Even if the look hadn't been meant to arouse, it fired the same impulses, the same needs. His body didn't care about the timing; inside he felt muscles tighten and the surge of blood-flow. Before he could stop himself he was leaning over the doctor. 

Luckily, Julian was equally attuned to him. With a soft intake of breath, the doctor elongated his neck, baring a delicate throat.

Garak moved to bite, resisted. He should be on Cardassia, with his own kind, not entwined with this soft, weak, boring, arrogant, lovely, enticing, kind, brilliant creature. Certainly not becoming sentimental. Certainly not weighing a playmate's needs against his own.

Why was he even considering it? Julian had treated every one of his previous relationships as if they were explosives on a timer. Garak wasn't foolish enough to think himself immune.  _It’s only a matter of time before he sees through you as well, once the novelty wears off._  

Tain would have a good laugh, right before the disdain crept in.  _Elim, you maudlin fool, you've allowed a parasite to wiggle its way under your defenses. Kill him. He means nothing and he's learned too much about you._

Garak whispered into Julian's ear, “Let me show you something.”

There was the reliable spark of curiosity in the doctor’s eyes, and Garak smiled. He took Julian's hand and led him deeper into the ruins of his shop. The storage room had survived mostly unscathed. He'd planned it that way. It would be an atrocity to destroy innocent bolts of fabric for no good reason. 

Julian tripped over unseen debris as Garak pushed aside a shelf and waved his hand over the false partition.

When the door unlocked, Julian was instantly there. “Oh! A secret spy door?”

Garak propped open the door and bowed in invitation. 

Julian slipped through, his eyes darting around. Then Garak heard an exclamation. “Kukalaka! He's here!” When Garak entered, he found the doctor cradling the stuffed bear in his arms and grinning. Then the smile faded. “Garak, he could've been killed!” He glared at Garak when he noticed him smirking. “It’s not funny.” Julian clutched the toy to his chest. “I trusted you to take care of him.”

“I assure you, my dear, he was never in danger.”

“How could you know that? If the blast had been any different—”

Garak folded his hands and waited.

Julian caught the change in demeanor instantly; he looked around the small room, untouched by the explosion. His eyes fell to the bear in his arms before settling on Garak.

His face slackened and he stared, as if seeing Garak for the first time. Garak stiffened. Then the expression was gone.

“ _Why_ _?_ Garak, if you'd miscalculated—you, somebody innocent—how did you even know how—was there ever even—no, the Flaxian. He really _was_  trying to kill you, wasn’t he? But—Garak, why didn’t you—you should’ve warned me!”

There was nothing to say to that. Surely despite his indignation, the doctor was aware that warning him would've been foolish. “When must you be back on duty?” he asked.

There was no subtlety to the distraction, no hidden motive other than he wanted the doctor right now, on his bed, before everything changed. He saw Julian catch on, saw the internal struggle as the doctor fought his need to “get to the bottom of this” and solve the problem at hand. Then: the recognition that it was a losing battle, another item to shelve for later. Disappointment passed over Julian’s face. Garak noticed it with a pang of sadness. 

_If it were all different, my dear, the things I’d tell you!_

Julian glanced away with a smile. He tugged at his collar. “I'm on my lunch break.”

Garak nodded and secured the door. “Clothes off,” he ordered.

Snapping to attention, Julian shed his uniform with his usual youthful speed and enthusiasm. Naked, he knelt before Garak, head bowed and eyes downcast. Perfect posture, Garak noted with pride.

“Such a good boy,” Garak drawled.

Julian puffed out his chest.

_He deserves better than an old, washed up agent. He’ll find better._

Leaning over, Garak caught Julian's chin and kissed him. Julian's muffled surprise turned to a moan as he opened his mouth, letting Garak taste him. He pressed back, meeting Garak's sudden desperation with the flick of his tongue. When Garak hauled him up and pushed him onto the bed, Julian didn't try to break away or argue. The questions evaporated, forgotten or reserved for a later time that would never come.

Julian was a monument to the male humanoid form; a heretical thought, to consider a human as the height of perfection, but Garak couldn’t deny it. Garak circled his fingertips around the soft skin of Julian’s nipples and their corona of hair, slid down over a delicate ribcage, past his navel to settle on the patch of curly black hair from where his cock sprouted. The doctor had been keeping up with his trimming, the pubic hair short but not stubbly, the perimeter well-hedged, his testicles and perineum smooth and depilated—as Garak liked it. Julian’s cock hardened under his touch, the foreskin drawing back to reveal its lovely pink head. Garak gave it a lick as his fingers drifted down.

Julian's body surrendered with a caress, a lock snapping open under a pick's pressure. Rings of taut muscle relaxed around his fingers, loosened, drew him in between long, spread legs. Garak could weep at the sight, at the feel of such trust. 

The doctor gave himself, and, unfastening his pants and positioning himself between those lovely spread legs, Garak took him over and over. Biting exposed flesh with each slow, languid thrust, he hissed, “Julian.”

“Yes, Elim, _yes_.”

Oh, but being inside the good doctor was a pleasure more intense than the implant could ever deliver. He fought waves of giddiness and the grin that threatened to split his face. It took all his self-control to stare Julian in the eyes, one hand loose around his slim throat. “I hope you realize, my dear,” he whispered, “that you're mine.”

Julian was a sight: head thrown back, skin flushed, teeth worrying his lower lip. He groaned in wordless agreement. 

* * *

Odo slammed his palm into the back of Garak's chair, startling him. “I've had enough of your dissembling, Garak! I'm not Doctor Bashir and we're not sparring amiably over lunch, or the holosuites, or  _whatever_  you two do these days. You dragged me into this investigation, and now you're going to  _cooperate_ with me.”

“Dragged you in?” Garak’s impulse was to squirm away, to affect an air of confusion in the face of the constable’s impatience. His eyes flicked to the padd containing the names of his dead colleagues. Someone was cleaning the stain of a past deed, one where he’d been involved. He needed time to think. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“You blew up your own shop, Garak.”

Garak stared. How? He’d been careful, left behind no trace—

“Well.” Odo chuckled. “I don’t think I've ever seen that particular expression on your face before. Is it surprise?”

Garak mentally retraced his steps, trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong. “Yes, Constable,” Garak said, stalling, “it is. I'm surprised that you could come to this unlikely conclusion.”

“Drop the pretense. I knew as soon as I spoke with the Flaxian. Assassins don't like varying their methods. He planned to poison you. I think you spotted him on the station, and them blew up your shop so that I'd begin an investigation!”

Mere conjecture, then. Odo had no evidence to support his accusation. Not that it really mattered; Odo hadn’t threatened to press any charges. Still, he wasn’t about to abandon the dance just as it got interesting. Standing, Garak shot back, “That seems like a very elaborate way of getting you involved. If I needed your help I could've asked.”

Odo nodded. “But you couldn't be sure I'd take you seriously. Or that I'd help you. Besides, I think you secretly enjoyed destroying your own shop.”

Garak had to appreciate the constable’s reading of the situation—his reading of _him_.  _A point to you, dear Odo. I underestimated your changeling intuition._  “Well, I admit watching it burn wasn't exactly _tragic_.”

Garak shifted tactics, shedding the soft exterior that had grown much too comfortable over the years. It was good to be rid of it. Garak laid out what he knew to the constable. He’d dealt with plenty of attempted assassinations in his time, and although the dead operatives had hardly been up to his caliber, Garak wasn’t deluded enough in his abilities to consider himself invincible. Anything but. No, he’d come close to being another name on that list.

“Do you have any idea why the Romulans would want you all dead?” Odo asked, repeating the same question that Garak had been grappling with since the beginning.

“I don’t know,” Garak said, “but Tain might.”

“That is, unless he suffered an unfortunate accident as well.”

Garak felt something in his chest sink. He didn't let it show. “That is a distinct possibility.”

* * * 

After the third try, Julian managed to yank the bag away and heft it onto his own shoulder. Garak made a sour face, but the scowl didn't reach his eyes. An  _A_  for effort. “Really, doctor,” he said, striding ahead. “I neither need nor want your assistance.”

“I'm not doing this for you,” Julian lied. “Commander Sisko ordered me to escort you to the docking ring, just in case there's another attempt on your life.”

“Sisko must _truly_ loathe me, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“I've seen you hold a phaser, Doctor. No, I'd much rather have had a security team.” 

The crowd gradually thinned. When they approached the docking ring, Julian adjusted the strap of Garak’s bag and murmured, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Garak.”

“So do I.”

They were at the airlock now. When Garak reached for his bag, Julian danced away. “Is there anything you need me to do while you’re gone?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” Julian waved a hand. “Any unfinished business, or—”

Garak tilted his head and favored him with an affectionate smile that never failed to make Julian go warm and fluttery all over. “My dear, you're clucking over me like a regova hen.”

Julian broke eye contact, suddenly shy. “Yes, yes, I know, you’re quite capable of taking care of yourself.” He jumped away as Garak made another grab for the bag. Julian wagged a finger. “Hey, none of that, you.” Julian rocked back on his heels as a thought occurred to him. “You know, now that I think about it, I might be more at ease if I were to come with you.”

“Come with me,” Garak repeated. 

“Yes.”

“Would that be to oversee your patient’s welfare,” Garak said, catching Julian’s wrist and pulling him close enough to shove against the corner, out of sight of passersby. “Or to satisfy some curiosity about my past?”

“You caught me,” Julian whispered and raised his hands in surrender. “This has all been an elaborate ruse to trick you into giving up your secrets.”

Garak leaned flush against him, his face hovering centimeters away. Two point eight centimeters. Two point four. One point nine. Julian closed his eyes and licked his lips in anticipation as they drew closer.

When Garak brushed their lips together, Julian wrapped his arms around Garak’s neck. He nearly hummed in delight. The worry lingered, and Julian finally understood what it must feel like for Garak when he left on unknown missions for indeterminate spans of time.

 _He’s probably done this thousands of times,_  Julian scolded himself.  _He’ll be fine._

Garak kissed him gently, tenderly, first on the lips and then on his cheeks, his jaw, his forehead and underneath his eyes. Julian shivered, trembled in Garak’s arms from the gentleness of it. Despite the softness of each kiss, the intensity caught Julian off guard. He swallowed past a lump in his throat, recalling the way Garak had led him into his secret lair and made love to him. 

Garak had been acting out of sorts for the past two days. Of course, Julian would be, too, if someone was out to kill him. But this was Garak. Unflappable Garak. 

Julian broke away to whisper against Garak’s mouth, “Be careful.”

Garak planted a kiss on his cheek. Julian felt the curve of his smile. “Have you known me to be incautious?”

A gruff voice destroyed the moment. “Gentlemen, if you wouldn’t mind  _speeding this along_. Time is of the essence.”

“Odo,” Julian croaked, finding the constable outside the airlock, glowering at them. He hadn’t even heard it open. That’s what he got for making out in the docking ring like a horny teenager. “We—” He swallowed, struggling to look at ease. “We can explain!”

Odo rolled his eyes and ducked back inside. “Please don’t.”

When he was gone, Julian was surprised to find Garak going in for another kiss. “ _Gar_ ak!” he said, planting a hand on Garak’s chest to hold him back. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Hmm?”

“What are we going to do?”

“You’re going to kindly return my bag, and I’m—”

“About Odo!” 

Garak smiled in that way that was enigmatic, smug, and condescending all at once. He took the bag’s strap and transferred it from Julian’s shoulder to his own. Julian was too bewildered to complain. “My dear,” he said, “I’ll handle the good constable.”

Julian wasn’t sure if he should feel comforted or fearful for Odo’s safety. He scratched the back of his neck. Better speed this up before Odo reappeared again to scold them. Can’t keep the constable waiting. After a moment’s hesitation, Julian threw his arms around Garak in an awkward embrace. He was too self-conscious now to risk anything warmer. “Good luck.” 

Garak inclined his head in a silent farewell. 

Julian watched him go. Garak showed no sign that he’d noticed the little item Julian had snuck into his bag.  _You’re getting sloppy, old man_ , he thought with a grin. 

He was on the Promenade when he felt something rolling in his trouser pocket. Julian reached in and drew out an isolinear rod. “Oh, hello there!” he said. “Where did you come from?”

He slipped the rod back into his pocket and walked on, an extra spring in his step.  _We’re both getting sloppy._

* * *

Sprawled out on the bunk, eyes closed, Garak focused on taking deep, measured breaths through his diaphragm. Whatever imbecile had designed the interior of Starfleet runabouts should've been summarily executed.

The walls were too close, his clothing too tight. His left hand twitched, anxious to tear at his tunic, to remove the constricting layer. He willed it still and concentrated on his breathing until his pulse steadied and the panic of impending suffocation subsided.

Why was he risking his life for Tain? Odo had wondered. 

 _Simple selfishness, that's why._  But that wasn't quite right. Garak didn’t expect Tain to end his exile out of a sentiment as laughable as  _gratitude_. He’d already done enough for Cardassia over his years on the station by supplying the Order with key intelligence (although he would've done it regardless of whether it would help curry favor). All the tips and slain enemies in the quadrant would never be enough to make up for what he'd done. Saving Tain wouldn't change that, especially if what Julian had said was true, about Tain wanting him to suffer.

Of course it was true. 

_Mila, why did you ask me to promise you?_

She must've known that it was unnecessary. A formality hearkening back to what he'd _always_ done. 

Garak considered what he'd say once he was face-to-face with Tain again. He certainly wouldn't do what he'd done  _last time._ This would be different. Garak would expect nothing. He'd demonstrate, modestly, that he'd learned his lessons. Then they'd go their separate ways—Tain to his retirement, and Garak to his exile. And he wouldn't beg.

Never again. 

Garak massaged the bridge of his nose. This was going to be unpleasant, worsened only by Odo analyzing and judging his every move. Part of him was relieved to have Odo here, keeping him company. Keeping him in check. But he didn't welcome the extra pair of eyes.

Rolling from the bunk, Garak made his way back to the cockpit. “What's our progress?” he asked as he replicated a mug of tea to wash away the taste of dread. 

“I'm taking us out of warp,” Odo said. “We're approaching the Unefra system.”

Before Garak could comment, the console blared the warning of a decloaking Romulan warbird. In Cardassian space.

It locked on with its tractor beam. Garak was seated at his terminal in an instant. Pulling away from the beam proved to be a futility, and Garak pressed his lips together at their spectacular failure. All he could hope was that Odo had gotten out his distress signal, alerting the station of their impending imprisonment. Or vaporization.

The boarding party materialized. As the Romulans prodded them out of the runabout and into the warbird's corridors, Garak formulated escape plans—

All of which he forgot the moment he saw Tain.

The man was the same. Older, yes, but it was the same affable smile, the same confidence as he announced his plans with the Tal Shiar to decimate the Founders' home world. They fell into a familiar step together, the two of them. Garak was vaguely aware of Odo's impatience with their back-and-forth; the whole of his attention was focused on Tain.

Tain, calling Garak his friend, showing surprise that Garak would come all this way to save him, offering to let him go.

Offering Garak the chance he'd been waiting for. To serve Cardassia again, he said. At his side, he said.

“So,” Tain drawled, standing, “do you want to go back to your shop and hem pants? Or shall we pick up where we left off?”

Tain's offered hand took some of the sting out of the mockery. Garak found himself transfixed.

Beside him, Odo's voice took on a pleading quality. “Garak, this is the man who put you into exile. This is the man who just two days ago tried to have you killed.”

All reasonable objections. Garak smiled as he glanced at Tain's hand. 

_Ah, but Constable, you still have much to learn._

 


End file.
